


Metanoia

by kyloewok



Category: American Horror Story: Coven, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Blood Play, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Domestic Fluff, Drug Use, Dubcon or Noncon Moirallegiance, Dubious Consent, Electrocution, Exhibitionism, F/M, Forced Cannibalism, Human Sacrifice, Implied orgy, Implied threesomes, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Knife Play, Kylo Ren is the Supreme of all Witches and Warlocks, Kylo also has tattoos, Kylo calls you his Sweet Angel, Light Satanism, Magic Play, Masochism, Murder, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Older man/younger girl, Piquerism, Reincarnation, Ritual Sex, Rituals, Sadism, Supreme!Kylo Ren, Suspense, Tags will be updates as story progresses, Talking To Dead People, Torture, Wax Play, Witchcraft, fire kink, innocence kink, voyerism, weapon play
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:55:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29388744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyloewok/pseuds/kyloewok
Summary: Your mother, Cordelia Goode, raised you as every other normal child-- despite her freakish past. Disregarding her morals as the Supreme, she moved to the countryside to raise you; her only daughter.Planning to discard any proof of your hereditary confinements, her plot of deceit sailed smoothly until you reached the prime age of eighteen, and the origins of your witching prosperities are unintentionally uncovered.Out of apprehension, Cordelia ships you off to an orthodox Coven in Salem, Massachusetts.The High Priest of your Coven was the new Supreme. And he had gained the faculty your mother had retaliated. Kylo Ren was a consequential man that withheld ominous capabilities-- and a devilish desire for you. The Covens Newborn.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Reader, Vicrul/Madison Montgomery, Zoe Benson/Kyle Spencer
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	1. Domino Effect

An ominous, sapphire glow illuminated your path of inquisition. The beams piecing the carcass of the house together groaned, swaying with the solemn breeze. The floorboards creaked over head, the soft shuffling of scampering feet blended with the expanse of other eerie, sinister noises. 

The feather-light tiptoes of your bare feet provoked another creak. You grimaced, barring your teeth together, before regaining your hasty footing. The hushed trudges of your feet echoed around the beige wallpapered walls, which were peeling and etched with silver lining. 

Another creak. This time, you halted. Your feet were planted to the cold, mosaic tiles beneath you. Vines with lethal thorns rooted you to the floor, as children's laughter erupted from the opposite end of the foyer. 

You gulped, swallowing your turmoil, and tediously swiveled to face the direction of the frightening noise. 

When you turned, an auburn gleam flickered vibrantly at the end of the foyer. A welcoming sheen tainted the walls, and the breached threshold adjacent to it. 

A trickle of aspiration flowed through your adrenaline pumped veins, followed by a line of fresh goosebumps that crawled up the curve of your spine, and ended at the nape of your neck.

With the trashing of your ankles, the tethered vines rooting you to the floor snapped, and you were free from the restraints of apprehension. Your steps, once timid and coy, morphed into strides of courage. 

The wicker of your lantern faltered, your grip subconsciously tightening on the handle. Your empty, clammy hand balled into a taut fist at your side. The corridor was growing nearer by the second. 

A glacial, sinister gust of wind spewed from the crack in the corridor. Painting your nose crimson, the hostile coldness nipped at your skin and numbed your determined limbs. 

The corridor creaked open leisurely. Revealing a void of black. Just an oblivion of vacancy that left room for the unimaginable to happen.

A queasy feeling nestled deep within your gut as you sucked in a breath, your lantern trembling in your fist as you outstretched it.

There was silence. 

A mortifying silence, painstaking and long. The type of silence that perturbed your thoughts, because all you could decipher was your own spiraling notion. 

Then, a splintering white noise distorted your hearing, creating a persistent throb in your temple as you seethed and braced your head. The lantern escaped your clutches, smashing into the ground. Pristine shards of unsalvageable glass shattered against the tiles, as the flame producing the light encompassed the entire hallway.

A murky fog of smoke billowed through the air, consuming the victorian prosperities of the foyer as the picturesque surroundings were set ablaze and engulfed by merciless flames. Ashes and soot coated the floor as you pivoted and sprinted away from the scorching fire, shouting incoherent nonsense. 

"Mother!" You croaked, your voice broken and laced with fragility. You shielded your flaring nostrils with your forearm, coughing gutturally into your cotton sleeve, breaths labored.

Cordelia scurried past the threshold of her bedroom, waving the clouds of smoke out of her face feverishly. Tears brimmed her chestnut irises as she dashed towards you with meaningful stomps. 

A pillar propping up the second floor of your home crumbled, fragments of silverstone colliding with the floor and bursting into thousands of figments of decayed rock. Rubble crunched beneath the pads of your feet, pebbles nestled into the crevices of your toes. 

Your mother was merely ten feet away when another thunderous crack reverberated around the collapsing hallway. "Mother!" You repeated, voice thick like molasses as tears welled up in your own eyes, fatigue weighing down your limbs.

She screamed your name through a strained, torn breath, outstretching her fingertips and reaching for you. You mimicked her stature, fingers scarcely an inch away from ghosting her own, before she vanished. 

Cordelia morphed into something volatile. She disappeared, evaporating in thin air. Not a particle of her being remained, not an ounce of her existence was provided. 

You staggered to a halt, stumbling over a figment of fallen rubble, and slammed into the disheveled floor. Soot peppered your crimson cheeks as you braced the floor with both hands, stabilizing yourself with wobbly limbs. 

Silence. As the smoke billowed infeasibly thicker, and the flames crackled boisterously with each portion of the building it burnt.

Until a deep, mundane voice deliberately called out your name. 

Your heart froze mid-beat in your scathing chest, before it quickened instinctively at the roaring sound of heavy stomps.

The baritone voice repeated itself, in a tone laced with immorality. A voice thick with earnest and cruelty. 

You harbored your hitching breath in your lungs, tremors slithering up your legs as you stood up, supporting yourself with a palm pressed into the floor. 

A dark silhouette shuffled through the haze of smoke at an agonizingly slow speed. The figure was broad and colossal, reeking of menace. 

Your tears were falling at their own free will, burrowing into your stinging cheeks, dribbling down your quivering chin. Toxic fumes emitted from the clusters of white fog, causing your vision to grow disoriented. 

The figure lurked beyond the spectral clouds of smoke, looming towards you with trivial strides. Your gut instinct was screaming at you, begging for you to escape the terrorizing site. 

The silhouette morphed into the distinct image of a man-- a man that adorned a wardrobe of black. Black clogs encompassing his large feet. Black trousers concealing his long legs. A black cloak draping over his broad shoulders. And a coiled, raven set of tousled locks. 

Everything was black; except for his enthralling, gleaming gaze. His honey-speckled irises sparkled, reflecting the auburn flicker of the flames as they bombarded each corner of the collapsing room. 

He spoke your name for the third time, his plump, amiable lips moving methodically as he retorted your title with diligence.

Words crawled up your parched throat, only to die once they reached the tip of your tongue. You skidded through a pile of debris, the knitted fabric of your sweater latched onto a sharp piece of eroded metal and sent you plummeting into the ground. 

Only for another second to tick by, and result in the cease of the chaos.

The voluptuous flames, the crumbling wreckage, and even the captivating stranger all vanished. Your dreary vision was strafed with a blinding shade of white, as a blaring silence pierced your skull.

~

With a heaving gasp, your eyes snapped open as you were abruptly roused out of your deep slumber. Sweat matted to your forehead, crust lined your heavy eyelids. You charily observed the interior of your bedroom as your heart twinged in your chest. 

Morning dew coated the windows, the glossy panes of glass reflecting the suns genial, golden glow. Cordelia was perched in the creaky rocking chair at your side, her eyebrows woven together with concern. With an antique teacup in her clutch, she gingerly blew into it, creating ripples in the pool of tea. 

Steam emitted from the glass, followed by the pacifying scents of Chamomile and honey. Your tense stature relaxed at the mere sight of your tranquilized mother as she hummed with a mellow smile, rocking softly in the chair. 

"You had another nightmare." She mumbled into the rim of her teacup, taking a cordial sip.

Your heart stammered as you nodded, swallowing the lump of turmoil bobbing in your throat. The sheets swathing your body were victim of your strident clasp, knuckles white and clammy. 

The nightmares had been a persistent, reoccurring sensation ever since the moment you reached eighteen. They nipped at your subconscious, and etched your brain into a space that felt unsafe and foreign. 

As of recently, the morbid collection of riveting thoughts have been correlating with real events in your life. Catastrophe mistook every corner of the world as a canvas for it to display its appalling wrath upon. 

It was a domino effect. Peril trailed behind the catastrophe like a scavenger seeking out refuge, or a lost puppy searching for its reliable owner. 

"I will be in my office," Cordelia rose from her seat flawlessly, bunching up the hem of her floor length skirt and shuffling towards the corridor. "I will prepare you some tea." 

You nodded with a faltering smile. "Thank you." You breathed graciously, feathering a hand through your disheveled, loose braid. 

She slipped past the threshold, the rustic hinges of the door squeaked as she softly latched it shut behind her. Leaving you in solitude to dwell on your crippling thoughts. 

A bell chimed off in the distance, triggering a gruff yawn to elicit from your throat as you stretched your stiff limbs and slipped out from beneath the covers. Your feet were greeted by the chilly surface of mahogany wood. The wrinkled fabric of your silk robe scuffled with the floor as you dragged your feet over to the bay window. 

Propping your forearms up on the windowsill, you scanned the peaceful scenery beyond the panes through narrowed eyes. 

A viridian river winded through the valley, twinkling beneath the suns hospitable, morning sheen. Rolling hills and fields of green peppered with vibrant wildflowers separated your cottage from the river. 

With a heavy sigh, calmness filtered the apprehension pumping through your veins, nurturing your cluster of emotions. The scenery never failed to impress you, even though you've awoken to the same ravishing landscape for eighteen years. 

The variations were minimal. Gloomy storm clouds occasionally rolled in with hostile gusts of winds and roars of thunder. Somber droplets of rain occasionally cascaded down the panes of your windows, leaving you nestled inside the house with your mother. 

It was beautiful nevertheless. And still, a figment of you yearned for more. 

The only times you have left the Ranch, were when you misbehaved at the academy you attended and Cordelia sent you off to Boarding School in England. Now, you were an obedient child, with little to no connections to the outside world. 

Cordelia has been formulating and sketching out the details of your future ever since you were an adolescent. Her morals were built upon the importances of education and discipline. Even with her strict demeanor, her intentions were limited to sympathetic and what she thought was best for you to be successful. 

A quaint knock rattled the frame of your door. You tightened the knots weaving your robe together and fiddled with your tangled locks, stroking the baby hairs out of your face. 

The knock, that was once bashful and tender, became a fervent, malicious pound. The doorknob rattled, the hinges clanked, the door trembled briskly as you jumped out of your skin and clasped your thudding chest. 

A horrendous scene unfolded before you within a span of a millisecond. Thick pools of blood oozed past the gap separating the floor from the door, tediously crawling towards you as it lapped up in sappy puddles. Crimson coated the mahogany wood, bubbling at the burgundy surface. 

You staggered backwards, breaths morphing into panicked hiccups. You sealed your eyes shut and took deep, tranquilizing breaths. 

Your eyes leisurely fluttered open, and to your relief, the puddles of blood had vanished without a trace. 

You blinked harshly to recollect yourself, before you ruffled with your hair, untwining the loose braid and freeing your locks. You massaged your own scalp, raking your fingers through the damp curls, and tiptoed towards the corridor.

With hasty, cautious steps, you outstretched your fingers and circled the doorknob, briskly shoving the door open. The hallway was dimly illuminated by slender candles, wax drizzling down the sides and coating the titanium candlesticks. 

You slipped past the threshold and scurried towards the stairwell. White marble collided with your pattering feet as you hopped down the stairs, hand slithering down the mahogany guardrail. 

The lavish set of french doors leading to the balcony were breached open, allowing the crisp autumn breeze to billow through your home. You inhaled the refreshing scent of shriveled leaves and condensation from the morning dew sulking into the plantation, when a shriek elicited from Cordelias office. 

"Mother?" Your eyebrows furrowed, perplexion splaying across your features. 

You creeped through the grand, art deco archway that led to the office. The foyer was eerily silent, except for the shouts of your perturbed mother. 

"This is impossible!" Her voice croaked, distorted and defeated, muffled as the corridor of her office separated you. 

You hovered near the door, pressing your ear up to the wooden surface, fist clenched with anticipation. 

"Not impossible dear." A rich, female voice retorted with a hint of amusement laced into her velvety tone. "If you would've withheld your position at the Coven, you would've known that." She hissed, followed by the heavy clanking of deliberate, heeled steps. 

With a baffled expression, you slowly curled your fingers around the doorknob. 

"I did what I needed to do in order to protect my daughter!" Cordelia screamed accusingly. "Something you would know nothing about!"

You tensed, eyes bulging. The brashness in your mother's tone was foreign, the opposite of her typical soft spoken voice. 

For a moment, silence filtered the tension in the air. 

Before the door swung open vigorously and you tumbled forward with a squeak, grappling the doorframe for support. 

Cordelias eyes dilated, her pupils expanding. Her mouth opened and closed repeatedly as she blubbered nonsense, blinking rapidly, gaping at you in horror. 

The other woman snickered bitterly, taking a lengthy drawl of her cigarette. Honey blonde hair framed her prominent features, a pair of oversized sunglasses shielded her eyes from your puzzled gaze. A black, flappy hat was mounted to the crown of her head. She adorned a black pencil skirt and a matching blouse, luxurious pearls encompassing her throat. 

Wrinkles burrowed rivers of apathy into her olive cheeks as she smirked prudently, "Hello, darling." She mused, licking her burgundy tainted lips. "You must be my granddaughter."

Cordelia clicked her tongue in disapproval, teetering towards you with diligent steps. She placed both of her hands on your shoulders, kneading them consolingly. "Will you go back upstairs, honey?" She asked, a ribbon of tears drizzling down her cheeks and you frowned. 

"What's going on?" You demanded, upper lip curled as you ripped yourself from her embrace and glanced between the two women.

The woman sighed heavily, "I'm your grandmother." She mumbled mundanely. "And your mother has been lying to you about your past." She growled, glaring pointedly at your mother. 

"Fiona!" Cordelia barked, sending spurts of spit flying through her gritted teeth. "Leave the explaining to me. Please."

Fiona hesitated, contemplating her suggestion with a flagrant smirk, before she nodded and propped her heeled feet up on the coffee table. 

"Take a seat." Cordelia spoke lowly, her voice wavering between broken and acidic. 

You complied to her orders, trudging to the leather couch directly across from Fiona. You lowered yourself into the seat charily, dubiously eyeing her up and down, fidgeting with your fingers in your lap. 

Cordelia breathed your name, grasping your weary attention. "There is something... special about you." She said, tracing the rim of her teacup with her finger, spreading the condensation. "About all of us." She gestured towards you and Fiona, whom shifted in her seat and scoffed under her breath. 

"Special?" You blinked at her. "How?"

She sighed, her internal conflict was palpable, discarding a bitter taste on your tongue. She considered her liable options, casting her gaze to the side as she pondered. 

"Maybe it would be easier if I said it." Fiona mused with a raspy chuckle, smashing her cigarette into a nearby ashtray. She glanced at your mother, and she nodded slowly.

"We're witches." Fiona explained blatantly with a haphazard shrug. "And you have the potential to be the next Supreme." 

You harbored your breath in your lungs, a heavy feeling of dread weighed down your gut. 

"W-what... what's a Supreme?" You stuttered.

Cordelia interrupted the next words threatening to spill from Fionas merciless mouth. "That's enough for now." She waddled over to you, plopping down on the edge of the couch, taking your trembling hands in hers. 

"Now that you know..." She glanced at Fiona, her frown deepening and eyebrows knitting together. "I will have to send you away." She sniffled, your eyes widening. "To a Coven. A home for witches." She explained hurriedly. "I'm not qualified to teach you about... your skills, anymore." 

A twinge of agony ricocheted around the fleshy walls of your brain, a sob cracked past your lips. "Skills?" You whispered in bewilderment. Cordelia released one of your hands and wiped your fallen tear away with her thumb tenderly.

She tugged you into an embrace, rubbing your back and swaying you back and forth with her nurturing hushes. "Magic." She whispered softly into your ear, pressing a firm kiss to your temple. 

The enthrallment of your predicament crashed into you like a boisterous wave of a Tsunami, drowning you in fascination. If the words Fiona and Cordelia were feeding you were the truth... you could escape the tedious clutches of your monotonous life on the Ranch. 

"Really?" You stifled the giddiness in your voice, squeezing your mother before releasing her. You cleared your sticky throat, "When are you sending me away?" 

Cordelia sucked in a sharp breath, looking over to Fiona for reassurance or guidance, only for her to be gone. The cigarette bud still emitted a haze of smoke as it laid lifeless in the ashtray. 

"In a few days," she breathed, bowing her head and plucking her fingers apprehensively. "The sooner you are experienced, the easier this will be for the both of us." 

She paused, pursing her lips, before she mustered up the courage to continue. "If you don't want to be apart of this, I don't want Fiona to make you feel obligated." She mumbled empathetically, eyeing you pitifully. "There's a reason I kept this from you for so long..." 

You disregarded her monumental speech. A fragment of your spiraling notion was rationalizing her decision to keep you out of this nonsense, the other part felt betrayed.

"Is Fiona really my grandmother?" You asked, voice meek and somber. 

Cordelia hesitated, before supplying you with a dull nod. "She was." She said. "She was killed eighteen years ago by her lover." She smoothed out the lace embroidery of her skirt, avoiding your quarrying gaze. "I was once the High Priestess of my very own Coven. That was where her death took place, and a ton of others as well." She sniffled, shaking her head softly. "That's why I haven't told you anything about our past. It's dangerous."

You blinked at her in astonishment, trampling over your own inquisitive words. "Well, what about my father?" You asked hopefully, chewing your bottom lip.

Cordelia froze. Her throat bobbed with the force of her swallow. Another tear glided down her cheek, painting her rouge skin in the colorless shades of sorrow. She was quick to pat her tears dry with her knuckles. 

"Thats not important. I don't want to overwhelm you." She hiccuped, the charms of her copper bracelet jangled as she hurriedly rid her tears. "Now, lets make you some tea."


	2. Coven of Ren

A paper thin vail, black and embroidered with pernicious designs and ornate patterns, was a reliable blockade from the moons misanthropic glow. Malevolence flooded the solemn fields of shriveled wheat, and sprinkled the decaying, festering barns along with it. 

Subdued, quaint cottages loitered in the mucks of grimy soil. Memories were twined with the abandoned remnants of vanquished bricks and peeling siding. The caved in basements, the flayed wallpapers and chipped paints, were all just a nullified cache for the families that once lived beyond the revoked walls. 

The array of cornfields were planted with a seed of immorality. Blossoming into a stringent, loathsome depiction of the grotesque events that swept over the plains of apathy centuries before the fields were rehabilitated and transformed into farms to provide nutrients for the worlds flourishing population.

A cobblestone plaque, engraved with conservative letters, was burrowing into the plush grass like a solemn grave. The enscripted words displayed your coordinates blatantly.

Salem, Massachusetts.  
Founded 1626.

The boisterous whir of the buses rumbling engine morphed into an abhorrent squeal as it skidded to a halt. Through the black vail contorting your vision, your eyes locked on the bus driver, his gaze grimly meeting yours in the wide rear-view mirror.

From the back of the bus, you rose from your rustic chair, gathering your suitcases. With vigilant strides, you leisurely skimmed past the vacant rows of seats. The everlasting panes of glass mimicked your dignified, melancholy reflection, which frowned back at you with glum so tactile it wafted into your face like an immense wintery breeze. 

The hushed, downcasted thuds of your leather boots reverberated around the buses grimy, muddied walls, that reeked of cheap cigarettes and rubbish. The moons insipid sheen cascaded through the giant windshield, illuminating your path of expedition. 

The bus driver remained perched in his seat, expression grave and polluted with irksome, as he expectantly held out his palm. 

You slapped a crumpled, wrinkled wad of colorless cash into his tarnished hand, plowing past the loafing man and hopping down the steep, three-step stairs. 

The air was oxidized with a faint, albeit prominent acidic stench, mingling with the scent of autumn equities. Corroded wreckage and tidily pebbles crunched beneath the soles of your boots as you shuffled along the gravel path guiding you towards the dark, whimsical village. 

The buses engine hissed, before it growled and roared thunderously, soaring straight past you. A murky cloud of tawny browns muddled your vision as dust accumulated and wafted into your face, you grimaced and waved it away feverishly.

The farmers rummaging through soil pockets with shovels and rakes suppressed their laboring duties, ridding their foreheads of the sweat that had harvested there, just to stare at you quizzically. 

The vail was aiding you by concealing the scarlet blush creeping onto your cheeks. With a fair wave of acknowledgment to the cluster of people, their inquisitive gaze lingered on you for a few seconds before they pursued their labors and continued working tediously. 

Everything was outdated, in the way that it appeared the quaint village had been consumed by a gouging black hole, and now they were on an endless time loop where history repeated itself. The town was serene and trivial, despite the ominous shadows lurking in the dejected corners of it. 

When the polished marble stairwell-- slick with dewy droplets of tree sap-- leading to the Coven came into view, your heart stammered in your chest, and a peculiar sense of regret nestled deep within your gut. Your limbs, heavy with fatigue from the weight of your luggage, were alleviated as you flagrantly dropped them onto the sidewalk. 

A rufous, coiled twine of eroded titanium greeted you at the entrance of the Coven. The words, Coven of Ren, were despondent and wretched, blemished with copper rust as they swirled in taut cursive loops at the tip of the gate. 

The gates were ajar, and with a brisk shove, they creaked open dauntingly. Soiled browns tarnished your palm, you seethed and wiped the sullied residue of the metal on your trench coat. After regaining your stamina, and pacifying yourself with a few deep, tranquil breaths, you delicately peeled your vail out of your face and scooped up your suitcases, slipping through the gate. 

Your hands tampered with the crown of your dark, wide-brimmed fedora. The black silk swathing your knuckles and palms was dainty, limiting your demeanor to classy and professional. A sultry shade of burgundy tainted your lips. With one final glimpse at yourself, you mustered up the courage to climb the narrow stairwell.

Crows cawed and squawked from their homes upon the sinister, looming limbs and branches of the oak tree that casted a gloomy shadow along the staircase. The frivolous, insolent chatter erupting from the quarrying birds felt like morse code, a primal warning. 

White, pillared bricks, embedded with blemishes by the whiskers of pests and limbs of silverfish, were the reserved walls of the Coven. Tethered ivy and overgrown, tousled vines were growing on the grimy surface, blistering the bricks shrewdly. Leaves crunched beneath your boots as they benignly floated through the crisp air, landing on the greasy cement. 

A pair of double doors, crimson and colossal, were the only contrasting fragments of color immersed into the odious, bland structure of the victorian home, the home that housed your figurative sisters. 

With a hitched breath, you clenched your fist and reluctantly lifted it. Your sensibleness plucked the taut string of apprehension weaving your brittleness together, and morphed it into ambition. 

You knocked heedfully, bouncing on your heels, grip subconsciously tightening on the handles of your suitcases. 

The hefty creaks of scampering feet elicited from the opposite side of the brawny, coruscating door. You nibbled on your bottom lip timidly, shoulders tense and stature rigid, before the door tediously creaked open. 

The main entrance was vacant of livelihood. Dimly lit by the golden, luminescent chandeliers dangling overhead, all of the picturesque decor was grave as the harrowing sheen failed to properly illuminate its sufficient designs.

A bombarding, palpable aroma filtered the thick air. A perturbing, inauspicious one, that left your brittle knees wobbly and your core taut with unease. 

"Hello?" You called out, your fragile voice bleeding through the fog of the abominable air, only for your affable voice to reverberate around the patchy, chipping walls. 

There was silence, as you gaped around the foyer with your lips parted in awe. Silver lining brimmed each threshold, reflecting the auburn glow cascading down on them. Prominent designs were etched into the shaved, beige wallpaper. It was all enchanting in its own captivating ways. 

A husky huff in the corner of the foyer caused you to jolt and snap your neck in the direction of the naval noise. 

An earnest man with benevolent, emerald eyes was leaning into a stone pillar, eyeing you charily. His sandy brown hair was glossy, slicked back with a thick coat of gel, and his pearly canines were chiseled and lethal as he grinned at you deviously. He adjusted the sterlings of his cuffs, clearing his throat and straightening his sloth posture. 

"Oh..." You mumbled coyly, blinking harshly. "I was uh... sent here from Wyoming." You breathed apprehensively, with the wish that you could cower and hide behind the lace material of your vail again. 

He hummed sagaciously, "Yes. I know." He flashed you a poised, impertinent glare as he shuffled past you brashly. "We've been expecting you, for some time now." 

His statement fiddled with the rationality of your mind, your eyebrows furrowing. It was only a few days ago when you discovered your origin, and all of its sinful prosperities. 

"For some time?" You mimicked softly, trailing behind him feebly. 

He sighed in exasperation, aimlessly guiding you through the Coven with brisk strides. "The Supreme has been..." He paused, the volant trudging of his feet freezing, as well, as you staggered to a halt behind him. "Knowledgeable on your capabilities, for a long time." He continued, prowling you with an insolent stare, eyeing you up and down with his upper lip curled in disgust, before he regained his footing.

The hallways were like cavernous tunnels, dark and protruding, winding mazes that took pliance and precision to maneuver through.

The remnants of a severed conversation hung dryly in the air like a thick, gloomy cloud of abandonment once he led you into the common room. The tension was tactile, as three pairs of eyes-- different in vibrant shades, yet similar all at once-- locked on you. 

You gulped, swallowing your trepidation. The lump of sappy salvia slithered down your throat, nestling into the pits of your stomach, as you sought refuge in the verdant gaze of the man, only to be put with less than reassurance. 

"Is this the new girl?" A young woman chirped, springing from her curled position on a plush, velvety couch, grinning at you with a small, amiable smile. 

Her hair was narrow and thin, basking in its freedom as the chestnut tips swayed below her ribcage. Her irises were a deep, rich brown, dark and captivating, fused with a void of black. Her smile, although petite and ginger, was bashful. 

"Yes." You nodded in athirst swiftly, coyly tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you introduced yourself. 

A young man with fluffy, golden blonde tendrils and a whisky-brown gaze sat a millimeters width away from her, pressing his olive hand into her hip and jeering her tauter to his side as he observed her through narrowed eyes as she greeted you. 

"I'm Zoe." She beamed with her timid smile, her hospitable grin deepening as she tilted her head and glanced at the boy clinging onto her side like a frivolous leech. 

"And this is Kyle." She gestured towards him idly, he nodded in acknowledgment with a pursed lip smile, scooting towards her until they were practically conjoined. 

The dainty blonde woman perched on the corner seat scoffed bitterly as she puffed on her cigarette, "And I'm Madison. Can we get on with this?" She spewed her words maliciously, words sharper than keen daggers, as she glared between you and the nameless man hovering by your side. "I still don't understand why the Supreme is hosting a dinner for her tonight," she spat, a hazardous glow of vexation twinkling in her eyes. "He didn't do this for me, or even for Zoe when we were first brought here." 

The mans eyes widened, bulging with earnest as he sniffled in aggravation and adjusted the collar of his middle-eastern suit. "It could be because she is the daughter of Cordelia Goode." He muttered through gritted teeth, flashing her a scolded, pointed look, as the energy in the common room shifts. 

"Cordelia is your mother?" Zoe mused, jaw dropped in sheer shock, as her and Madison exchanged a look. 

Madison was pinning you down with her loathesome, vile stare, as her nostrils flared with the next inhalation of her cigarette. "Just fucking peachy." She clicked her tongue, jaw clenched tautly and teeth barred. "More competition." She mumbled monotonously to herself, slouching her shoulders and sighing heavily. 

"Madison." The man hissed, warnings lacing his raspy tone as he cocked an unamused brow. 

"Vicrul." She barked back, squinting her eyes at him with a provoking, challenging stare, as smoke billowed around her face. 

He swiveled to face you, seizing you by the wrist and hauling you out of the common room with ferocious strides. His grip was that of a vice, crushing your frail bones beneath his digits. Madison chuckled prudently, relishing in her success of pestering him, as her acidic, manic laugh grew muffled when the corridor creaked shut behind you. 

"Vicrul?" You mumbled breathily, raking in breaths by the lungful as the vague taste of accumulated dust and debris loitered on your tongue. 

"Yes?" He sighed, brows sloping and ghosting a crease in his pale, anemic flesh. 

"Where are we going?" You asked bewilderedly, eyeing the dull expanse of barren, tormented walls, as ribbons of rigid cracks scarred the beige surface. 

"The dormitory." He affirmed. "You will share the space with Madison and your other sister, Queenie." He nodded to himself, noting your quarry and sighed. "Queenie was sent away by the Supreme due to..." He blinked repeatedly. "Classified reasons, in which will reveal themselves overtime." 

You nodded haphazardly, grimacing at the lumpy texture of the walls colorless expanse as you pondered on his words and traced the cracks softly, dwelling on them. If Queenie was on a voyage, that would leave you with Madison-- The girl you were comfortable with loathing, even with the littlest bit of information on her personality. She had that snarky, perturbing bitchiness that splintered your core with annoyance.

The last thing you needed was a rivalry with a Madonna wannabe that was balancing the weight of an insecure sociopath and just a borderline egotistical narcissist. This experience was limited to learning, and consuming the inevitable flaws of witchcraft-- not building relationships. A friend to confide in would be crucial for your sanity, and that was exceptional. Everything else was scraped off of the platter. This was your opportunity to gain faculty, and having an envious drama queen as your roommate was not resourceful in the slightest. 

You floated on a cloud of apprehension as your hasty footing met with Vicruls strapping stomps. He guided you down a luminous foyer, nudging the corridor open and propping it open with the steel-toe of his boots, waving for you to scamper inside. 

You shimmied past him, anticipating directions. Numerous coats of slick, tainted paint concealed the blemishes in the ivory, ornate walls. The flooring was reflective, black and mosaic, polished. The ceilings were grand and colossal, towering over you.

Three cots with fresh, neatly pressed sheets were adjacent to each other in opposite corners of the room. On one side, tethered shreds of old magazine articles peppered the walls. All of them were photos of Marilyn Monroe and Shirley Temple, or unsaturated photos of shirtless men in cologne campaigns. That side clearly belonged to Madison. 

The other side was filled with basic necessities. A table-lamp, standard alarm clock, and a sack of soiled clothing footed the vacant cot. 

Leaving the bland portion of the dormitory open and spacious for you to splatter with the wrath of your fruitfulness, and the inventive juices that flowed through your artistry veins. Maybe it could resemble home, if you molded it into a creative experiment of your own. 

"I'll let you settle in. I will try to keep Madison occupied so you can enjoy this..." He gestured towards the room with flailing limbs. "Temporary peace and quiet." Vicrul sighed apologetically, huffing in amusement when you giggled at his statement. 

"Dinner will be prepared in half an hour." He stated earnestly. "The Supreme prefers professionalism. I suggest dressing accordingly." He mumbled, examining your attire through hooded eyes as he slips past the threshold and latched the door shut behind him. 

You blinked at the emptiness encompassing the space Vicrul had just blabbered in, before you collapsed into the welcoming embrace of the sheets swathing your cot. The mattress dipped, the frame groined from the application of weight, as you stared blankly at the ceilings-- which were a splendid ivory with silver crests weaved into the design-- and made delicate snow angels on top of the abundance of bunched blankets. 

After a few minutes of harmless rest, acquainting yourself with your new bed, you sprung up from the croaky mattress and ransacked your suitcases. With the hurried mechanisms of your twiddling fingers, you managed to unpack the majority of your clothing and tuck them away into their designated sectors of your provided dresser. 

Although the Supreme was volatile and unkeen to your wandering eyes, you could sense his presence, just like you could sense a stalker lurking in the corners of a bustling street, on a gloomy Saturday night, as they went on their routinely prowl and scavenged for prey. 

You were persistent on the idea of impressing him tonight, at the dinner he was hosting for you. But what could a girl as oblivious and naive of the acts committed between these very walls do to captivate someone of such authority and menacement? 

You resulted in shimmying out of the pantsuit you mother insisted on you adorning, and replaced it with a scandalous black dress. The material was silk and lavishing, a thin strand of string laced the dress together in the back. You combed through your tousled locks, vanquishing the static and frizz, and restyled your hat on the crown of your head, slightly adjusting it and examining yourself in the mirror. 

You grimaced at your reflection and rummaged through your make-up bag, knit-picking through the products you wanted. You settled on reapplying the devious shade of scarlet tainting your lips. You were satisfied with your sultry reflection and you hurried past the threshold. 

The blatant, wanton shrieks of erotic moans elicited from a barred corridor and you stifled a gag, scurrying past the door and hopping down the stairs. You memorized the route to the dining hall on your expedition with Vicrul, so you easily adapted to the twists and twines of the halls, and found yourself tiptoeing through the archways of the kitchen. 

Zoe and Kyle were both perched next to each other, a gaping hole of space separating them, contrasting to the way they were woven together only moments before in the common room. Zoe fidgeted with her fingers, peering down at the empty china on the dining table. Kyle was mimicking her nervous demeanor, fiddling with the hem of the black table cloth engulfing the table, staring at her in his peripherals. 

Zoe's gaze darted to you as you waddled past the vacant row of seats across from her, plopping down into a random one with a faltering smile. The three of you were in solitude, the turmoil radiating off of each of you was thickening the musky air. 

"The Supreme will arrive shortly, I'm sure." Zoe assured with a distinct pfft, and an incompetent wave of her hand, as if she was wafting her own apprehension away instead of yours. Kyle nodded benignly in agreement. 

There was silence, except for the distant clatter of dishes clanking and ovens chiming. 

The rustic floorboards of the spiraling staircase groaned, as Madison and Vicrul sauntered there way into the dinning room. A prudent, satisfied smirk was tugging at her lipstick smudged lips, as Vicrul just feathered a hand through his hair and lowered himself in a seat. 

Madison maintained the seductive gleam in her eye as she winked at Vicrul from across the table, sensually using the tip of her thumb to wipe the remnants of lipstick off of her lips and the side of her mouth. 

Zoe scowled, "Gross." 

The mischievous pair disregarded her disgust. Madison was prolonging her devilish gaze on him, as he pretended she was merely a figment of his imagination and just observed you through glossy eyes instead. 

A boisterous ding roused you from your trance, as a cluster of feeble servants scrambled into the dining room, jingling bells. Your eyebrows knitted together in astonishment, as their fervent faces contorted into pleading looks, despite the facade of eagerness pulling at their clammy lips. 

Everybody gathered at the table collectively rose to their feet and you stumbled to mock their actions. Every pair of eyes in the dining room was loitering on the distinguished threshold adjacent to a colossal bay window, and your gaze strayed to the source of attention.

"The Supreme." A noble servant bowed, gesturing towards the threshold as a tall figure loomed into the suddenly suffocating, cramped room. 

The man trudged in with tedious struts that were poised and frugal, phlegmatic and villainous. His sins were nefarious and heavy, a sardonic burden that weighed down his crippling, melancholy heart. He reeked of sinful, barbaric desire, lustrous uncanny, and mainly, a copious sense of immorality and hein.

His satin, coiled waves were jet black with a divine taint of raven. His features were porcelain, a void of emotion. His lips were a natural rouge, formed into a permanent pout. A fresh ironed suit accentuated the muscles peeking through the all-black attire, as he leisurely lowered himself into the seat a servant had swooped back for him. 

His honey-speckled gaze remained on yours as he delicately unfolded a cloth napkin and splayed it across his lap, kindling a scathing fire of familiarity in your pounding chest.

He was grueling and callous, alluring and... familiar. His ravenous gaze was lustrous and sinful, consuming you with an equal amount of convention and familiarity. He cocked an intrigued brow, silently basking in the turmoil his presence bombarded you with. 

After a few seconds of withholding eye contact with him, you blinked feverishly, and he only grinned at you with a lopsided, demonic smirk. The tension in the air was insufferable, thicker than molasses, as everybody stifled conversation. 

The servants shuffled through the dining room, pouring liquors and wines into each glass, and brimmed the antique china plastered on the table with elegant, savory foods. 

As everybody nibbled on their food with tactile caution, you anticipated the moment when the Supreme would introduce himself, or welcome you into his Coven. Only to be greeted with the intensity of his stare as he attentively observed every irrelevant fiber of your being through hooded eyes. 

"So." Madison broke the silence with the click of her tongue, swiping it along her bottom lip to gather the burgundy taint of wine lingering there. "When is Queenie coming back?" 

Nobody responded to her wry comment, or even glanced in her direction, as an even thicker tension weighed down your high-strung shoulders. 

"Oh, that's right." She mused in her sour tone, narrowing her eyes at the Supreme accusingly. "You let her get tangled up with Tituba, again."

A brash, gnarly purple vein was protruding from his porcelain forehead, his satin chin quivered and his flaring nostrils ticked like a lethal strand of dynamite, sparkling and fizzing, on the verge of exploding and perishing every life form in the dining room with its bloodless wrath.

She continued, despite the look of earnest fatal enough to kill plastered on his stone features. "And you don't even seem to-"

The Supreme appeared tranquilized, enthralled with the site of his steaming food. His fork was nestled between his long fingers as he stirred his food around. With the minuscule twitch of his undereye, Madison's lips forcefully sealed shut like the prickly teeth of a Venus Flytrap. She hummed in distraught and thrashed, her fingers flying up to her lips to try and pry them apart as her eyebrows furrowed in horror. 

"I would appreciate if I could enjoy my meal in peace." The baritone, gravelly sound that slipped past the Supremes barely parted lips sent tremors throughout your entire trembling body. The serenity filtering his tone was alarming, you chugged your champagne timidly and fumbled with the hem of your dress as you avoided glancing in his direction.

Madison's aghasted hums morphed into muffled screams as she yanked and tussled with the glued skin of her lips, only for her efforts to be useless, and cinch them together infeasibly tauter. 

Zoe and Kyle were both divulging in their steamy, greasy meals, as if the horrendous events unfolding in front of them were unproblematic. Vicrul was swirling a brawny glass of whiskey around, watching the hazel bubbles rippling at the surface. 

Madison was livid now, tears streaming down her caked up face and smearing her makeup, as she rammed the hilt of a fork into her lips with hitched breaths as she tried to wedge them apart--

With a thunderous pop, your vision was distorted by a burgundy coat of blood. Crimson coated Madisons agonized features, black pools of blood oozing from her pried lips as raw, pudgy, peeling flesh encompassed them. Her chipped teeth were painted crimson as she sobbed and sent spurts of blood in her plate of food. 

You recoiled, heaving into your forearm as you simmered down the urge to hurl, blinking away tears and briskly averting your gaze. Nausea churned deep within your gut as your gaze darted to the Supreme. He continued nibbling on his food quaintly, watching her plainly. 

"That's no way to behave in front of your new sister." He muttered mundanely, voice laced with orthodox and deliberance. 

She gaped at him in terror, collecting the copper scented pools of blood in her cupped hands as she sprung up from her seat, preparing to scramble for relief, only for her body to plummet back into the chair. The chair shoved itself back in, slamming her into the table until the edge was severing her breaths, revoking her ability of breathing. 

"You haven't been dismissed." The Supreme stated pointedly, consuming the way she blubbered at him like a flailing fish out of water with prudence and apathy. 

"Please," her tone was liquidated as blood dribbled down her chin and coated her dress. "I'm sorry, Supreme!" She wailed, sending wads of tinted spit in his direction as he didn't even flinch at the sound of her pathetic pleads.

He casually continued chewing, chugging a glass of whiskey to wash down the fragments of food that were stuffed in his throat. 

"You're all dismissed." He demanded lowly, sinking deeper into his throne upon the foot of the dining table, as they all just bowed their heads and obliged his commands, and you mimicked them. 

As you approached the archways to exit the dinning room, that deep, sinister voice beckoned your name richly and you froze, leisurely swiveling to face the Supreme. 

He stared at you quizzically, eyeing you up and down flagrantly, rising from his seat like a predator on the hunt for its meek, unsuspecting prey. 

"Welcome to the Coven of Ren." A morbid, depicting smirk tugged at his plump lips. "I think now calls for a good time to teach you some rules."


	3. Nefarious, I suppose

You trailed behind the Supreme with meek, brittle strides, each resigned tiptoe pattered along the mosaic tiles with trepidation. The bleak, ginger thuds of your booted feet reverberated around the inauspicious building you would soon call home for months upon years-- tedious years that stretched beyond the inevitable oblivion of eternity like an elastic rubber that had made amends with a curved surface. 

The remorseful walk, the feeble stroll of your feet, was masquerading a sheepish walk of shame-- as if the prosaic, ornate paintings mounted to the ancient walls have grown a pair of mystified eyes and probed you with their odious glares. 

Madison had just endured the touchless, barbaric wrath of the Supreme, and even with the innocence that filtered your modest veins, you were bombarded with apprehensions. Had you displeased the Supreme? Had your quarrying silence at the dining table tempted him with vexation? 

The pacifying breaths you inhaled through parted lips tranquilized your jitterish nerves by a minuscule, cleansing the lethargy of your virtuous soul and discarding the burden of your sins. Had you done something to jeopardize your professional demeanor? Had the Supreme peaked through the vail of morality barricading your impurity? 

It was like his honey-speckled gaze had melted your altruistic facade, and molded it into the deviousness of his own desire. And maybe he had, because with the solitude of his presence, and the lustrosity of his gravelly tone that poured over you like a thick coat of molten molasses, you were the clay to his artistry palms.

His silence was thunderous, blistering in comparison to words. If he would just submit to the tension and speak with that navally, baritone voice of his, it would be less perturbing to your twinging heart and less threatening to your skittish mechanisms. 

His raven coils bounced with the force of his stomps, swooping past his large ears like crescent leaves billowing through the autumn breeze. His fair grunts of discomfort raptured past his taut, rouge lips, plump and formed into a glum pout. His colossal stature was tense, shoulders broad and stiffened, fists balled and swinging pointedly at his sides. 

Slender candles with flickering wicks and musky scents loitered around on each pristine, empty surface of the foyer, illuminating your coarse with a malevolent, amber glow. The moonlight spilled through the dormer windows lining the tarnished walls, pouring its viridian hue along the floor, brimming the shadows of your shuffling silhouettes.

The Supreme leisurely descended his brisk strides, and you mimicked his slow dynamic, peering up at him through your eyelashes. His black tendrils draped over his satin features like dark, velvet sheers as he glanced down at you, a gleam of serpentine twinkling in the void of his irises. 

The corridor before you was titanium-- the steel embroidery contrasted with all of the other doors in the Coven, which were white with french linen. 

He breached it open with the steady shove of his hand, expectantly propping it open for you. You slipped past him, glancing up at him timidly as you scurried past the threshold. 

He cleared his throat, the hoarse hum crawling up the depths of it. "Take a seat." He grumbled, the fabric of his clad suit rustling as he trudged inside the office. 

You obeyed, smoothing out the fabric of your tight-fitting dress, harboring your panicked breaths in your lungs as you lowered yourself onto the ottoman perched before his desk. 

Everything in the Supremes office was consummate, organized meticulously, assembled with diligence and codified to the T. The cleanliness was unnerving, for from the surface of his mahogany desk, to the obscured crevices of the dark corners, were spotless of muck and coated with a sheen of scour. 

Confectioneries, without the intention of being edible, were stacked in a vase, to appear welcoming, you presumed. The office lacked decor, making the flaws of the centric room more prominent; the venomous claw marks piercing the wallpaper, the tawny, swelling patches on the ceiling from pipe leakage. 

The only fathomable form of ornament was a painting. With the brawny width, and the protracted length, it consumed the entirety of one of the vanquished walls. The trimming was gold, with unintelligible patterns embedded into the frame. The painting itself alarmed you, and sent a ghastly pang of fear into the caverns of your chest. 

It was your mother. Cordelia, radiated her significance flamboyantly in the painting, despite the alluring, genial grin stretching her pink lips. No. That was not your mother. She was a depiction of your mother. A melancholy sinner, with the weight of her treachery weighing down her adequately sloped shoulders. 

The Cordelia that was in the flesh, and that is your mother, was tending to her garden and divulging in anthology novels back at the cottage, basking in her serene life in Wyoming. The one that she cherished with earnest, and you despised with an immoral level of loathsome. 

After you scanned the room with your quarrying stare, your gaze flickered back to the Supremes. Your eyes widened, glossy with perturbation, when you noticed his belligerent gaze was already boring into yours. 

He blinked a few times, before he spoke. "I tend to come off as contradicting." He stated mundanely with a half shoulder shrug, deliberately pacing the floor behind his desk, with his eyebrows set in a hardline as he made meaningful eye contact with you. "Nefarious, I suppose."

You nodded heedfully, slowly licking your lips before pursing them. He paused, cramming his hands into his pockets, as he undressed the painting of Cordelia with his ravenous eyes. Eyeing each prominent piece, as if to memorize the blotches of smeared paint and the aged indents of the canvas. 

"Your mother, was no different." He drawled the words volitionally, his tone was etched with mischief, brimmed with silver lining. He averted his earnest, auburn gaze to you, as you blinked at him, with a quizzical look that could only mean perplexion.

"And you," he hissed enthusiastically through gritted teeth, the heavy clack of his leather shoes ricocheting off of the corroded walls, as he creeped towards his desk. "Will be the womb of that raptured soul your mother once harbored." He noted the crease in your forehead, the crinkle of your brows, and he sighed bitterly as he rounded his desk obtusely. 

There was merely four feet separating you, as he hovered near the edge of his polished desk, glaring at you through narrowed eyes. You squirmed in your seat, fidgeting with your clammy fingers, your pulsating heart throbbing in your throat. 

He perched himself on the surface of his desk leniently, the joints in his tendons popping. "I knew her very well." His eyebrows wiggled, lips pressed into a thin, lopsided line. "It's a shame that she took you away before we could become acquainted." He feigned sorrow, batting his eyelashes and sucking in a sharp breath. He folded at the waist, and your heart plummeted to your gut when his palm-- frosted with a hostile cold, pale and freezing-- connected with your cheek ever so softly, like the ghost of the devils sinful kiss. 

"Because I've just been dying to meet you." His voice was hoarse and diabolical, heavy with yearning and hein. He pinched your cheek between his forefinger and thumb, nipping it between his fingernails, piercing crimson, crescent-shaped indents into your skin as you stifled an agonized howl.

"Really?" Your fragile voice trembled, and your lips curled into a queasy line. "W-why?"

He hummed contently, a feigned, cordial smile splaying on his lips before his features morphed into that of an acidic stone. Cold, solidified and industrious. He yanked his fingers away from your cheek, and you yelped, as he nearly peeled a patch of your skin off.

"A good girl like you is exactly what this Coven needs." He stated with unwavering confidence, that had the blistering capabilities of boosting your fragile ego. 

"Your genetics... grant you abilities that a scarce amount of witches possess." He raised his eyebrows pointedly. "Your sisters are weak, compared to you." He spat, and you shifted in your seat, feeling threatened and vulnerable, as you endured the wrath of his daunting stare. 

"And I will be here to guide you, if guidance deems necessary." He said haphazardly, crossing and uncrossing his long legs in front of him as his elbows perched on the surface of his desk. 

"If it fits?" You retorted through a scoff. 

He barred his teeth together, the gritty screech of his bones grinding together caused you to flinch, and you scrambled to correct yourself, and your negligence of addressing him applicably. 

"Sorry, sir— I mean, Supreme." You chirped bashfully, your bottom lip quivering. You sucked it between your clattering teeth, nibbling on the clamoring flesh. "My apologies, sir, but, I don't seem to be following..."

He blinked at you for a few, tedious moments, to the point you could've sworn the clocks stopped ticking, and that the planet halted its spiraling on its axis, before his amused smirk cracked the tension in the room, and flooded it with relief. 

"The formality, dear is—" He redeemed the slip of his facade that beamed through the crumbling wall, by growling his words like a malicious predator, and regaining his calculated footing. "Unnecessary, when our... discussions are private." He shot daggers at you with his honey-brown gaze, tracing the curved corners of his desk with his calloused forefinger. 

"You shall refer to me as Ren, in moments like these, and only Ren." He leisurely jeered the words, as the slope between his cocked eyebrows became more prominent. "Am I clear, little one?"

For reasons unbeknownst to you, your heart fluttered around the incarcerating cage of your heaving chest. Suddenly, your tongue was dry like the sandy terrains of the Sahara's, lacking the ability to form words without mutilating them. You just nodded swiftly, heedfully.

"Mm. Good." He cracked a devious smile, fiddling with an ink pen between his long, desirable fingers. He lowered himself into his office chair, that was in desperate need of oiling due to the boisterous squeak that emitted from it upon the application of his weight. "Now, lets get onto the rules. Shall we?"

He slouched deeper into his seat, and you mimicked his stature, hoping to blend in with the tranquility of his dynamic. "Yes, sir." You mumbled coyly, and he cleared his throat vigorously with a cocked brow. "Ren." You corrected, and the tip of your tongue recoiled, due to the unfamiliarity of his title. 

He nodded curtly, straightening his posture and rolling his broad shoulders. "The amount of rules are fairly minimal, but, as a Coven of such high profile, it is required that I have a few regulations set in place for you girls." His emotions were enigmatic, as he spoke through you, instead of to you. 

"One—" He waved an indicating finger. "The north wing, upon the second floor, is off limits." His demeanor was earnest. The unforgivable kind. "If your curiousness will mislead you, I suggest preparing yourself for the consequences now." He snarled accusingly, as if he could depict the inquisitiveness that flowed through your veins based on the expression that was knitting your face together. 

You wrung out your wrists arduously, feeling a twinge of fear ripple through your body. Apart of you was perturbed over the idea, that beyond the very corridor separating you from the rest of the Coven, there was an entire sector of the 'home' that was blockaded from your quarry. It was peculiar, sketchy, and unnerving, because your curiosity has always bested you. 

Ren cocked an intrigued brow, abruptly on full alert, as he weaved his fingers together, folding them on the surface of his desk. "Will that be a problem, young lady?" His tongue flicked his inner cheek repeatedly, poking and prying at the moist flesh. 

"No." Your response was bleak, and quicker than anticipated. "The north wing is off limits." You retorted his strict, unpliable rule, with an ounce of pitiful fright etched into your tone. 

"Very good," he mused leisurely, nodding to himself, impressed. "You're a quick learner." 

You acknowledged him with a meek nod, and he huffed in amusement. "Second. This one will be difficult, considering your roommate." He cocked his head from side to side, his hazel eyes rolling in vexation as he pondered. "But no bickering with any of your sisters. I've learned by experience that it can only result in chaos." He grimaced as he relived the inferior moments. 

You gulped, timidly tucking a strand of unruly hair behind your ear. "I'm not one to start fights, I... I keep to myself." You mumbled, and your cheeks were tainted with a rosy, bashful blush as he tilted his head a bit, the ghost of a smile brushing his lips, as he admired you silently. 

"I see." He breathed, nodding to himself, propping his elbows up. "You are far from similar to your sisters, you know." He admitted blatantly, his eyes hooded, as he pinched his forefingers together and pushed them into his lips. 

"And I trust that you are obedient and civilized. On the other hand, I don't particularly trust your sisters..." He trailed off, his gaze wandering to the window, where the sapphire moon radiated its ominous glow and cascaded upon the bristling trees, bestowing gloomy, murky shadows along the plush tendrils of shriveled grass. 

"I will do my best not to cause a fuss with my sisters." You confirmed, your lips twitching into a genial smile as he averted his concentration back to you. 

He nodded with a convinced smirk, "Theres one final rule, and then you may retire to the dormitory for the evening." He ran his cuticle along the desk, and for a moment, your gaze drifted from his consequential face and landed on his monstrous hands. 

His first knuckle, loitered a black tattoo with fading ink. An upside down cross, that was painted with the apathetic needle of sacrilege. And his other hand, was peppered in grave, diabolical tattoos, all of them peculiar symbols that had no relevance or meaning to you. 

Ren cleared his gruff throat, "The last rule should be simple, for a sweetheart like you." Despite the alluring hospitality of his words, his tone was immoral and deranged, as if his intentions were cruel, and his demeanor was unholy. 

"Never disrespect your Supreme." He hissed, and you subconsciously stiffened at his brashness. He stroked his bottom lip with his thumb, licking his upper lip. "Or as you witnessed during supper— there will be severe consequences."

His statement churned the bile deep within your gut, and tethered the seams of your stability. "Yes, sir." You muttered with perseverance, before kneading the nape of your neck nervously. 

"You are dismissed. Sleep well," Ren gingerly waved you off, his attention had already strayed away from you, and was now victim to a stack of tarnished, tawny manuscripts. 

You sprung up from the ottoman, scurrying towards the door frivolously. In a sense, he had ejected you with a sedative, simply by the richness of his enthralling voice, and the deliverance of his words, and you felt comforted with the idea of strolling these cavernous halls, and embarking on this fresh chapter of your life. 

Your apprehensive strides were restrained, as you rooted yourself to the floor. "Um... Ren?" You mumbled from over your shoulder, and he hummed in acknowledgement, glancing up at you through his dark eyelashes. 

Out of stress, you plucked and fiddled with the peeling skin surrounding your cuticles, as you heedfully pivoted to face him, hovering near the corridor. "I should've asked sooner, but..."   
You trailed off, chewing your bottom lip when you noticed he was distracted by the manuscripts he was divulging. 

Noting your silence, he titled his head back up swiftly. A black coil of his hair escaped the collection of his raven locks, and curled in front of his forehead. He pawed it away with his hand, wafting it out of his face. 

"My faith in this power I posses, is faltering." Your words melted together like molten lava, as you hoped that the faster you spoke them, the quicker you would be appeased of the burdening thoughts. 

He paused, scanning you with his inauspicious gaze, as if you were a novel that he had flipped through thousands of times before, but never obtained a word from. "How committed to this lifestyle are you willing to be?" He asked, narrowing his eyes, and stroking his jaw.

"It's my new purpose." You replied with little thought, basking in the gratitude that brightened his icy features, pleased with your devoted response.

The floorboards groaned beneath the weight of his oxfords, and you maximized the space between you by creeping backwards, swallowing your trepidation. He only prowled closer, trapping you between his swelling chest and the latched corridor, as he snaked towards you with that familiar gleam of corruption and fatal impiousness in his eyes. 

His hand, was slothfully outstretching, until his palm was acquainted with your hip. The black fabric accentuating your figure rustled beneath his fingers, as he pinched the material, and slithered his hand up your waist. 

"You're feebleness is astounding." He clicked his tongue in disgust, his fingernails, embedding into your skin like venomous claws, and you trashed in his clutch. "I ought to perform a liturgy, on you."


	4. The Realm Below

"Step one." 

The Supremes voice roared, like the battle cry of a lonesome wolf, as it nipped on the heel of its victorious prey. He towered over you with his colossal build, with the auburn glow of the laboratories austere lighting illuminating his solidified features. "Submit." 

The lab, as Ren referred to it as, was the opposite of any lab you've ever discerned. With the expectation of witnessing microscopes and flasks of acidic liquids, you were perplexed when you were instead addressed by a cataclysmic chamber of ominous prosperities.   
The natural, pacifying rays of moonlight were blockaded from spilling through the window, as it was dead-bolted with a palette of steel.   
Everything, from frugal and presumably lethal, was saturated by the darkness of the lab. And Ren, was the formidable shadow lurking in the macabre crevices, guiding you through a tunnel of immorality that ideally, was a path of manipulation that conveniently had no escape at all. 

The walls, that were tainted with a hue of black, expanded for miles beyond belief. And you were being lured deeper into the cavernous, gaping chamber of torment, as ridiculed howls and screams of anguish ricocheted around the empty room. 

"Submit?" You shouted. His words were barely cohesive, over the apparitions pleads of freedom.

He nodded grimly. "You will submit."

And with his implicating command, a cord weaving your sanity together had snapped. Lustrousity manifested itself, and harvested a sprouting seed of desire within your core. As if he rooted it there himself, using his veiny, calloused hands to embed the blooming tulip of allure. Your coyness was masqueraded with enticement, and your tense limbs, were loose and free from tautness, being rehabilitated with poise as if you were the puppet of his puppeteering. 

"Submit to our savior, in the realm below. Reconcile with your sins, for he, will influence me, so I, can be your guide." 

Your spirit latched onto each of his nefarious words like a leech. Consuming them, registering them, and believing them as if they were the virtuous vows you had uttered on every dewy Sumday morning at the foot of a pastors pedestal.

"I submit." To your own ears, your words were synthesized through a modifier of manipulation, and Ren, drank in each spilling aspect of your dignity greedily. As if he craved the consequence of your self-negligence.

His fidgeting fingers plucked with an article of metal, grappling with a malefic, atypical tool. From your proposition-- as a merciful prisoner, with leather restraints buckling you to an eroded, titanium chair-- the lights reflected the shimmering object, and you gulped, wiggling your wrists despite the moderations encompassing them, and blistering them with blotchy bruises. 

"The devils whispers have determined your source of affirmation." Ren grumbled, his broad shoulders flexing as he shuffled from each corner of the polished counter before him, fumbling with different fatal devices. "And we must perform the acts, before sunrise, if you wish to uncover your faculty." 

At that, he pivoted to face you, with a medical tray of domineering supplies. You nodded heedfully, blinking away the tears that were brimming your eyelids, just by the sheer glimpse of equipment scattered along the tray. 

The metal clattered, rumbling as he slammed the tray down on the pedestal adjacent to your chair. "First, we must grime ourselves with the soot of our sins." He grinned diabolically, and you modestly batted your eyelashes as you peered up at him innocently, bewildered of his intentions. "Our sins, together, will mingle and serve you conception." 

Your heart plummeted to the pads of your feet, pulsating revoltingly, as your comprehension was regained. You grimaced, queasily pursing your lips and arduously thrashing your wrists, even though you just granted him consent to perform the liturgy, only moments before. 

"We can stop, sweetheart." Ren confirmed, with a disappointed crease in his furrowed eyebrows. "But, this is the only way to brew the powers of an inexperienced witch, I'm afraid." 

Your heart was stammering, an insufferable heat scorched your timid cheeks, and sweat surfaced around the nape of your neck, and the crevices of your greasy forehead. 

"No, no." You rasped. "I want to do it, please." 

He hastily eyed you up and down through narrowed eyes, before he nodded curtly and rolled his shoulders. He adjusted his stature, and deliberately took his place in the space between your legs. 

He was towering over you. Your gaze danced along the broad expanse of his toned chest, that was concealed by his suave blazer, trailing down until you noticed the tint in his dress pants. His bulge stared back at you, with a challenging, provoking stare, as if it was daring you to pounce and attack it with your lips. 

Despite your now shriveling flower, you've had dreams that involved the devils sinful games of lust, and now, you were about to play one. 

"Look at me." Ren commanded, his voice was dripping with dominance, warm with sublime desire. "Eyes up here. Show me that you can obey your superiors." 

A trickle of aspiration, and a path of lustrous goosebumps lined your skin, as you swiped your tongue along your bottom lip and peered up at him through your eyelashes. 

"Mhm. Good girl." He cooed, voice hoarse and gravelly with longing, as he pet your scalp with a daunting grin. "I knew you could do it."

Warmth was pooling in your lower belly and your eyebrows crinkled together from the peculiar sensation, but you submitted to the heat that enraptured your entire clamoring body when Rens long fingers fumbled with the clasp of his belt. 

"Remember that this is nothing personal, Goode." He cocked a brow, his jaw clenched as he unlooped his belt and tossed it to the cement floor blatantly. "We are simply partaking in his sardonic ideals, for the benefit of you."

You nodded vigorously, "Yes, sir." Your response was vague in comprehension, as the only thing you could register was the urgency to quench your desire. 

He grunted in response, tediously unzipping his pants, palming his bulge through the crisp material, hissing under his breath. He proceeded to untuck his swollen length, throbbing, red and massive, cradling it in his monstrous hand-- that was infeasibly smaller in comparison to his dripping shaft. 

"Open your mouth." He demanded, and you obliged, dropping your jaw and tilting your head higher. Precum drizzled from the tip of his cock, coating your collarbone and your breasts that were spilling from the top of your dress. 

Without an ounce of reluctance, he thrusted his shaft past your lips and you gagged, as his tip pounded into the back of your throat, and he rocked his pelvis into your face. You sputtered, drool spilling from the corner of your mouth, as you swirled your tongue around his throbbing shaft. 

"You like this, hm?" He hummed, his breath hitching as his hips snapped to buck into your face, and you blubbered nonsense. "The Supreme, fucking your little throat?" 

You nodded feebly, the tendons in your jaw growing sore and unaccomodating, as hot tears streamed down your scarlet cheeks from the force of his thrusts. With the mixture of your mesmerization with his cunning, immoral personnel, and the intervention of your innocence due to his enticing body and navally tone, you were positive you had just successfully submitted to the Devil. 

The occasional growls of pleasure, and lewd, breathy groan would elicit from his plump lips, and his sounds only heightened your eagerness and fueled the kindling flame of lechery pumping through your adrenaline-injected veins. Even with no experience in the smothering world of erotica, your arousel aided your willpower to contribute by bobbing your head and dragging your tongue up and down the underside of his shaft. 

"Such a good girl," Ren rasped, simultaneously maintaining his hefty, earnest demeanor. "Taking my cock so well, in your pretty little mouth." 

His fingers gouge holes into your scalp, feathered through your locks, grappling and yanking the now tousled, damp tendrils of your hair, asphyxiating you with the throttle of his cock as it mercilessly collided with the back of your throat. You sputtered and mewled, pressing your thighs together to appease the friction formulating between your legs.

His vile, imperil gaze abandoned yours-- glossy with yearning and bloodshot-- only to drift to your jiggling thighs as you tautly crossed them to obliterate your own neediness and whimpered, sending vibrations through his pulsating cock. 

He seethed through gritted teeth at the sensation, picking up his ruthless pace, "It will be your turn soon." He breathed, stifling a pleasured grunt, continuously raking his fingers through your sweat-soaked hair. "After me." He inhaled sharply, as his words caused you to whimper and grow enthusiastic. 

"But, you— fuck, but you need to be a good girl and get through this first." Based on the twitching of his shaft, and the unethical rock of his hips, you presumed his peak was rising, teetering towards the edge. "Then you will receive your award." 

With a few strained, heaving breaths through puffed cheeks, hot ribbons of cum collided with your tongue and swished around your mouth as he continued thrusting. Preparing to swallow the warm, sappy liquid, Ren's fingers snatch your jaw and pierced your flesh as he releases his sticky cock from your mouth. 

"No swallowing." He jabbed his finger at you, growling the words with a cocked brow, as he tucked himself away. 

You nodded obediently, his seed lapping up in a thick puddle on your tongue, as you anticipated his next order compliantly. Your wrists, adorned blotchy, purple rashes from where you trashed them.

Ren rummaged through the supplies on the medical tray, swooshing the tools around as they scraped the pliable metal, before his fingers curled around a tarnished, stained manuscript. The shriveling sheet of ancient text crinkled in his grasp, as he studied the contexts heedfully. 

He placed it back down gingerly, the paper serenely cascading from his palm and fluttering as it landed graciously on the tray. He scooped up an empty, porcelain bottle-- translucent and crystallized-- popping off the aged cork, before expectantly waving the vacant bottle in front of your lips. 

"Spit." He demanded with an encouraging, dictating nod towards you, his upper lip curling antagonistically as you hesitated. "Spit in the bottle."

You loomed your crimson, tear-stained face over the bottle, tediously accumulating a wad of saliva in the back of your throat, before a droplet of your spit mingled with his seed drizzled down your chin and into the miniature hole at the tip of the small flask. 

Using the pads of his calloused fingers, he swiped the creamy remnants that missed the hole, and to your astonishment, took them into his mouth. He hummed navally into them, making idle eye contact with you, as he sucked down the evidence of your conjunctioned sins. 

As if summoned by nullity, Vicrul emerged from the chipped, white corridor behind your chair. You craned your neck at a prenatural angle to glance at him, only for Ren to strike you in the cheek with his rough knuckles. 

Your gasp escaped your lips as a hiccup, as the prickling impact of his harsh slap took a few seconds to emanate. When the pain registered, you could feel the blood surfacing at your skin, the print of his hand embedding into your cheek. 

"Don't move." He hissed, swishing the liquid in the bottle around, creating ripples of bubbling whites in the glass. "We can't risk any distractions, unless you would like to repeat the liturgy." 

You pouted with a heavy, dramatic sigh, narrowing your glossy eyes at him. He only feigned innocence with a palpable, deceitful smirk, as he snatched a book off of the tray. It was swathed with worn, leather casing, black and peeling. He smoothed his palm over the cold surface, relishing in the icy sensation, before briskly flicking through the primeval contents of the book. 

After belligerently sifting through the tawny pages and muttering curses to himself, he paused on a specific page, his hazel gaze dancing along the sequences of Latin words. 

"Conjure this." He barked the order, the ultimatum, and Vicrul scurried over to him obediently. He slapped the bible of the antichrist into his grimy palm, waving him off brashly. He complied and shuffled over to a counter on the obscured half of the chamber, creating an array of boisterous ruckus and chaos. 

Ren circled your dainty wrist, flopping it around to observe your forearm. "What happens next?" You breathed inquisitively, the knot weaving your nausea together tightening, your core cinching, fingers pulsating.

He disregarded you, averting his attention to your clavicle. Through hooded eyes, his dark eyelashes fluttered as your hitching breaths wafted into his face, and he traced your collarbone with his finger. 

His adam's apple bobbed, his skin, that was coated in a dense sheen of sweat due to the torrid heat of the chamber, was glistening enough to greet you with your own godless, disoriented reflection. 

Both of his hands found the patch of soft, dewy skin surrounding your clavicle, leisurely trailing down to the collar of your scandalous dress. His fingers pinched the fabric, and within a millisecond, he ripped a gash in the satin material, creating a rigid, tethered shred between the valley of your breasts. 

He yanked it down, peeling the fabric, as the seams screeched and whined, untangling themselves from their twined partners. Your chest swelled with each inclined breath, as your modest skin, that had accumulated beads of apprehensive sweat, was being revealed to the Supreme. 

The lace of your tempting, bombshell bra, the plush flesh of your belly, were all poignant, as he shucked the wrenched fabric off of your body. His fingers caressed your stomach, with the ghost of his fingertips, as he slowly dragged them back to your breasts.

He penetrated you with his gaze, staring through your faltering soul, as he crouched down to be level with you and cupped both of your breasts, palming them with deep, precise kneads. You stifled a mewl, your eyebrows weaving together, as you clambered down on your bottom lip and met his gaze. 

Your nipples hardened and you arched your back into his gravitating touch. He hummed hoarsely in approval, swiping his tongue along his bottom lip, kneading faster. He glimpsed Vicrul from over his broad shoulder, who was completely unaware or unfazed by the events unfolding beyond his blind eye. 

"Conversus ad paginam centum triginta." Ren murmured to him, rolling his tongue deliberately, speaking what you presumed to be Latin fluently. 

Vicrul nodded, flipping through the unholy bible virtuously, gouging the paper with his finger. He retorted the language back in a quipped mumble, and Ren huffed in amusement, shaking his head. 

One palm continued massaging your breast and pinching your nipple, as the other flattened on top of your pulsating heart. 

"Oh, sweetheart, you're a wreck." He tsked through his barred teeth softly. His thumb, pinched your chin, and titled your head down to look at him. "Let me help you relax, okay?"

You could feel the warmth of sheepishness painting your cheeks a bashful crimson. He assumed your silence was exception, and it was, for you were incapable of speaking. 

His hands abandoned your breasts, you whined and squirmed, as they trailed down to your thighs. He rubbed your flesh with precision, growling to himself, as he rolled it between his ginormous palms. He bowed his head lowly and you tensed, as his thick tendrils of raven locks tickled your skin as his lips connected with your inner thigh. 

The plump, slow allure of his rhythmic lips sent tingles straight to your core. They peppered warm, passionate kisses to your thighs, trailing towards your heat with each suckle and lick. 

"I wonder how your sisters would feel," He whispered into your skin, leaning back on his heels, and staring up at you with his ravenous, honey-speckled gaze. His tongue swiped along your panties and you gasped, as the tip of it swirled around the damp pool of your wetness. "Knowing that you're the only one that gets to feel my mouth like this." 

His hands grappled with your outer thighs, slithering up to your hips. He thumbed the hem of your pantries, rolling the narrow fabric between his fingers, and tugging them down briskly, as if his mechanisms were fueled by yearning. 

His lips attacked your sex without an ounce of relent, and your hips bucked into his face, as he stroked your slick folds with his tongue. His hands pinned your hips into the chair, and you attempted to roll them nevertheless, just for the sake of friction. 

Your head fell back, and you whimpered pathetically, jaw slack. His tongue was prodding at your entrance, drinking in your juices. He spanked your thigh and you squeaked, a twinge of pleasure striking your cunt. 

"Legs up here." He demanded as he hoisted your thighs up on his shoulders, curling his forearms around them and shoving his face into your sex. His long, prominent nose brushed your clit with each flick of his tongue against your slit, and your breaths were quivering as you squeezed his head with your thighs and moaned. 

"There you go..." He cooed, his lips probed your wet folds, licking a stripe up to your clit. His lips sealed around your aching bud, tongue flicking and prying at the needy bundle of nerves. You moaned wantonly, a shriek of pleasure, as your body spasmed from the unfamiliar feeling, your breaths morphing into chirped pants, calves folding tauter around the nape of his neck. 

"Oh Lord," you wailed, and Ren winced at the shrill of your moan. Vicrul cringed, his face contorting into a depiction of trepidation, and through your rise of pleasure, you failed to comprehend that you just cried out for the Lord in a moment so treacherous to his virtues. 

A peculiar sensation was spiraling in your heated core, and you stifled another sob and chain of unfit pleas. 

"Let go." Ren growled into you, his tongue swirling feverishly around your clit, with the demeanor of provoking your climax; which was working. "Let it all go, little one."

And at that, the thread weaving your sensibleness together snapped, until it was just a corroded strand of possibility. You moaned animalistically as you submitted to the pooling heat in your lower belly, and felt your body convulse and spasm, juices leaking from your core and saturating the Supremes molten face. 

"You are very messy," he chuckled wryly to himself, licking his swollen lips clean, inhaling the ribbons of your juices coating your thighs. "And delicious." He swiped a puddle of wetness off of your thigh and prodded his fingers past your lips, "Taste yourself." 

You obliged, blinking at him coyly as you slowly licked and sucked his fingers clean. "Good girl. I think you're ready now." He exclaimed gruffly, averting his focus to Vicrul as the heavy, boisterous thud of his boots reverberated around the steel walls and captured his attention. 

Vicrul handed him a vile of oil, shuffling past him, rounding the back of your chair. You were still recollecting yourself, by drawling in hefty, unsteady breaths, when his cold hands rested on your shoulders. He rolled them beneath his palms and he hummed, kneading the muscle with his thumbs.

Ren unscrewed the cork of the vile, discarding it to the tiled floor blatantly. He doused his calloused palms in the sappy, auburn-tainted oil. Your nerves were pacified by the ruthless plucks of Vicruls hands on your shoulders, alleviated by the sticky warmth of the indistinguishable oil as Ren began to mould it into your abdomen. 

The pomade billowed down your body, seeping into the crevices of your thighs, hotter than the molten wax of a candle. After he swathed your stomach in the ointment, he cupped both of your cheeks with his slimy hands, embedding sticky imprints of the oil into your skin, dragging his hands down slowly. 

He then, untucked a steel rod from the bottom rack of his metallic cart. The end was lethally keen, the point sharper than the blade of a freshly stroped knife. 

He murmured immoral, Latin whispers to himself, sealing his eyes shut, before he blew a heed of his warm breath into the tip of the rod. And to your bewildered astonishment, a scathing flame bombarded the edge of the rod, illuminating Rens face with a menacing scarlet-orange. 

You jolted, as murky smoke billowed from the blazing point in swirling tendrils, wafting into your perplexed face. 

"Do it. Now." 

At Rens seamless command, Vicrul folded at the waist and nestled his face into the crook of your neck, whispering satanic, unlinguistic sequences to you. 

Instead of being bombarded with the shrilling scorch of the rippling flame, your vision, that was foggy from your cloud of euphoria, had been blackened and beat to the pulp by the devious whispers in which flagrantly rolled off of the brooding servants tongue.

~

"Goode?" A deep, gravelly voice roused you from a state of unconsciousness. Warm hands cloaked your brittle frame, consoling the nips of agony at your skin with tender caresses. 

"Can you hear me?" His voice became clearer, intelligible, as the white noise piercing your fragile skull faded away and was laced over with awareness. 

"Mhm." You attempted a meek hum, your heavy, fatigued eyelids fluttering open. You hissed and sealed them back shut as a splintering migraine raptured your spiraling notion of incohesive thoughts. 

"Can you open your eyes for me?" Ren, asked charily, endeavored with hospitality. His hands continued grappling at your forearms with a firm clutch, shaking me softly. 

This time, you shielded your fiery eyes from the white, luminous lights overhead, and leisurely pealed them open. 

Rays of the suns midday glow, yellow tainted and affable, spilled through the lengthy white drapes enveloping the dormer windows. And the diabolical, dark man, with midnight black clothing and equally as daunting hair contrasted with the sainting light of the suns mildewing sheen. 

The cot beneath you belched as you bolted straight upwards, eyeing the dormitory heedfully. After the sexual affairs you engaged in with the Supreme, your memory was just a figment of volatility, blurred and fictitious. 

The Supreme, was nestled into a creaky, Victorian armchair, staring at you with curtained eyebrows and pursed lips. His expression was somber, meshing with the stoicness of his cruel demeanor. 

"What happened?" You asked croakily, your voice tarnished with extortion either from overuse or the lack of it. 

Ren sighed, and stroked his gleaming jaw, straightening his clad postering infeasibly further. His gaze drifted to your abdomen and you followed it with turmoil. A nightgown, black and silk, that was tucked away in your luggage, was now encompassing your body. 

"Roll up the hem of your skirt." He ordered, his earnest voice was vacant of any real emotion. 

You scoffed nervously, "What?" You re-evaluated your hearing skills, gaping at him. 

"I said roll it up." He repeated through a snarl, perching his elbows on his muscular thighs. "Let me show you." 

When you remained frozen, planted to the cotton, fresh-linen scented sheets, he scowled and swatted your hand away, replacing it with his own. His hands bunched up the hem of your nightgown, rolling it up to your stomach. 

Only to reveal the perfectly clear canvas of your soft flesh. Now, you could discombobulate the liturgy in fractured figments. The semen, the oil, the flaming rod. 

"There's nothing there." Your pouty lips curled into a solemn, humiliated frown, that only deepened when you noticed the quarry in the Supremes eyes.

"It's baffling. I've been the Supreme for eighteen years, and i've never seen a witch that wasn't casted with atleast one element." 

Your melancholy morphed into curiosity, a grueling growl of hunger for sploits grumbling in the pits of your stomach. "Element?"

He nodded stiffly, circling your wrist and guiding your hand to his. He guided you by aiding you in grasping his own hand, flexing his knuckles. 

"See these symbols?" He asked consequentially, and you nodded, your eyes trained on the blotches of black ink engraved into his skin. 

He circled the base of your forefinger with his, assisting your hand by helping you graze the first tattoo, as if you worked with the tactile objectives first your mental capacity would expand. 

Subconsciously, you shifted beneath the sheets and the cot squeaked beneath you, as you traced his first tattoo with your fingertip. 

"It means protection." He murmured to you, his hand that was free from your wanderous grasp brushed a bushel of your hair over your bare shoulder. 

The symbol he was referring to was nefarious and indescribable. Your fingers traced and mesmerized the second tattoo, relishing in the twitch of his fingers when you grazed his rough skin. 

"This one represents bane." You gasped as you observed the ornate pattern sculpted into his knuckle, massaging his fingers with your thumb as you studied each symbol individually. 

Including bane and protection, his collection of meaningful tattoos entailed fire, pentacle, rebirth and purification. He went over the sufficient definitions of every symbol, and their origins, as you fumbled with his fingers and attentively consumed the diligence of his words. 

"So, what does this have to do with the ritual we did?" You chewed on your bottom lip, tilting your head, as you absentmindedly rubbed the clean slate of your belly. 

He exhaled heavily. "After we... sedated you, we seared your skin, upon the request of the ritual. Overtime, the scab was meant to peel away, and the symbols of your main powers would be embedded into your skin." 

Your fingers were still plucking and playing with his, and he slowly peeled his hand away from you, to ensure you were captivated by his words.

"But I'm afraid... your skin wouldn't burn..."


	5. Clairvoyant

Morning mildew swathed the ornate glass pane adjacent to your cot. Your eyes, that were bloodshot and brimmed with fatigued-induced crust, followed the dewy droplets as they cascaded down the panes, that reverberated the auburn sheen of the forenoon sun.

The golden rays conveyed trickles of fortitude throughout the dormitory, illuminating the obscured figure of Madison's body, as she tumbled around her squelching cot and rustled with the cotton sheets draped over her petite frame. The other bed, sat painstakingly still, as the sheets that were crisply molted to the cot alleviated the idea that anybody ever nestled into it at all. 

Subconsciously, your fingers embarked on a quest, that involved tracing the smooth flesh of your lower abdomen— that had been burnt by a torrid, scorching-hot rod— and left unscathed, as you peered past the tousled drapes of your unruly hair and observed the gloomy overcast of impious, strolling clouds.

The Supreme was discombobulated, perplexed over your wretched excursions. Only an hour has passed by since he indulged you with the malfunctioning liturgy. He scrambled out of the dormitory and suggested that you get some rest. Sleep never came, though, it only taunted you with its contemptible deprivation. 

Now, the enthralling scent of fresh, warm vanilla was emitting from the ventilation system, and you couldn't help but crack a dreary smile as you inhaled the pacifying scent of baked goods. 

According to the standard clock perched on your bedside table, taunting you with its low, trivial numbers, it was just nearing six in the morning.

The coils of the mattress squeaked as you shimmied out of the soft embrace of your sheets. The soles of your feet coalesced with the mosaic-tiles, that were cold and dignified beneath your wiggling toes. Your inflammated limbs bleated as you stretched and extended them to their prolonged length, yawning tumultuously, as the fatigue digressed your body and was replenished with aspiration.

The supple silk fringe of your nightgown cascaded down your thighs, tickling your calves as you ascended from your cot. Madison stirred, only diminutively, before she rehabilitated the appearance of a pudgy corpse that basked in quietude six-feet beneath the earths sagacious surface.

You charily tiptoed over to your dresser, impetuously rummaging through the unorganized top drawer and fishing out your robe. You slipped your arms through the satiny, loose-fitting sleeves, idly adjusting the droopy, plush fabric, as you slipped into a pair of white, lace embroidered ankle-high socks. 

Hugging yourself, you trotted to the door and smoothed out your robe, before breaching it open softly. The hinges creaked, and you grimaced in response to the bleating sound it emitted. You slipped past the threshold, and the sweet, welcoming fumes grew more prominent as you tiptoed towards the stairwell. 

The marble stairs pattered beneath your scampering feet, as you hopped down benignly and flashed a genial smile to one of the maids fluffing out the throw pillows splayed on the couch of the common room. The sun was bestowing a ribbon of its golden wrath on the tarnished wallpapered walls, reverberating off of the mirrors gleaming surface mounted above the mantel. 

As you pivoted around an abrupt corner, you chirped as you nearly plummeted into Vicrul— as he blinked at you exuberantly to recollect himself, the silver tray adorning antique teacups wobbling in his clammy grip. 

He hissed to himself, before swiping his tongue along his bottom lip, and collecting the juices of his vexed spews. "Ah." He clicked his tongue, tilting his chin defiantly. "Good morning, miss." He greeted you with a serpentine smirk, narrowing his eyes into minuscule slits, as he gritted his teeth. "I was just about to bring the Supreme his tea. Would you care to join him?"

Your muscles belched, the arch in your brow flattening as you heedfully shook your head. "No, thank you." You breathed, wringing out your wrists and fidgeting with your pinky finger. "I actually wanted to check out the kitchen. The—"

"No." Vicrul intervened brashly, his jaw clenching as he stomped his cladly garbed foot. "The kitchen is off limits. Return to your dormitory. Breakfast is served at nine." 

With his insolent, snarled words, he trudged past you with his shoulders square and his stature straight, disappearing down the foyer. You hovered, stabilizing yourself by elbowing the beam buttressing the threshold, pondering on his feverish demands. 

You were never the type to misbehave, or disregard the rules that were so promptly proposed for you; but Vicrul's ardent behavior over the kitchen caused the curiosity to nip at your toes, and elicit an itch in the back of your scratchy throat. And quarry was one of those frivolous traits about you, that was infeasible to overlook, impossible to parch. 

Glimpsing over your shoulder, you scanned the perimeter, persuading yourself that the premicise was clear and you were free to explore, and embark on your immoral quest through the prohibited regions of the coven. 

Your stomps were a contradicting mixture of an apprehensive tiptoe, and a perturbed scurry, as you darted past the eerily vacant dinning room and towards the slender path to the kitchen. The metallic clanks, and porcelain clacks of dishes and pots ricocheted off of the peeling walls, as you subconsciously picked up your pace, and approached the corridor.

You leisurely breached it open, wafting in an intoxicating scent of eroded metal. The alleviating scents of vanilla and warm concoctions had been vanquished. Now, there was an insufferable smell of metal scorning, and another gnarly scent; copper. 

The kitchen was ominously illuminated by the auburn flicker of a slender, wax candles wicker. Darkness seeped through the deprived corners, as the polished mosaic tiles remained unscathed and clean. Not a single staff member was accompanying the sinister kitchen, and not an ounce of conjuring-food was apparent. It was just empty, vacant of personality and livelihood— it was eerily still, disregarding the striking flicker of the orange wickers misanthropic glow.

"H-hello?" You stuttered, your brittle voice bled through the dense, glacial air, as you gingerly eased the corridor shut. 

For a moment, the ear-splintering silence was boisterous enough to mimic ghoulish whispers, the refined walls absorbing the heinous murmurs. 

New, exuberantly nauseating scents wafted into your face. The bile scents elicited a gag from your throat, as you shielded your nostrils with your forearm, and tediously rounded the Island in the center of the kitchen. The deliberate buzz of insects soaring through the air, caused you to wince, and choke on your own stability. 

You follow the low, grizzly hums of the quarrying flies, as they swarmed around a tarnished sack matted to the mosaic floors. Your face contorted into a grimace, as you leisurely plopped down on your knees, and reached for the hem of the sack. 

The material was lapping to the tiles, and you heaved into the silk of your sleeve, as you pried the sack off of the sappy floor—

A shrill of anguish slipped past your lips, as your jaw dropped, and you tumbled backwards into the floor, scrambling away from the morbid cluster of disheveling fleshy objects, that were doused in crimson and black layers of coppery blood.

Your cracked scream reverberated around the walls of the kitchen, your clammy fingers trembled, as you outstretched them to conceal the gory remnants of raw flesh and shattered limbs. Human flesh, you presumed, as nats and grotty flies swarmed it, munching and nibbling on the appalling figure. 

Grimy, rotting organs. Twined Intestines. Fractured ivory bones, muddied with copious globs and chunks of blood. You were spewing blabbering sequences of bleats and mortified shrieks, tears streaming down your cheeks and staining your pulsating neck. 

"Auxilium eius." Thousands of melancholy voices whispered, the desolating words were just an echo of a salacious nymphet, as they elicited from every pensive corner of the kitchen, where the wallpapered walls embedded with misery seemed to close in on its recipients. 

"Auxilium eius," the whispers demanded, and despite your non-bilingual aptitude, the words formed into an intelligible message in the back of your bemused mind, blaring "Help her." 

The steadfast marches of a grueling beast, pounded into the tile, rapturing the objectifying base of the earth beneath you, as your glossy vision was muddied with the wrath of your despair. Your heart twinged, as maggots crawled through the puddles of drying-crimson, and you crawled backwards with weak limbs, sobbing into your trembling hands. 

Before a pair of hands clasped your shoulders, and you jolted at the impact of the mollifying touch. "It's okay, It's okay!" Kyle flailed his hands in surrender, his golden eyebrows arching in bewilderment and sprouting concern. You exhaled a deep, quivering breath of relief, your eyes darting to the disheveled figure on the floor, only for it to be gone. 

Zoe slammed into the corridor, her eyebrows knitting together and her scarlet lips parted, as she scurried towards you and dropped to her knees next to Kyle. "Hey," she breathed your name. "What happened? Are you alright?" She cupped your cheek, her eyes narrowing, as she observed your heaving condition earnestly.

Tears were coating your fluttering eyelashes, as you hiccuped breathlessly and pointed to the blank, polished tiles where the gory bundle of disturbing mush had lied just moments before. "T-there was a-a body." You seethed, your finger trembling as you pointed at the emptiness encompassing the space.

Zoe pondered, with a deepening frown, and a vague wrinkle burrowing into her forehead. Kyle was mimicking her solidified expression, frowning at you, outstretching his hand to you. His knuckles softly pressed into your forehead, "Shes burning up." He noted, averting his palm to your forehead, and humming to himself. 

"I-I'm not crazy..." You mumbled through a strained breath, fidgeting with the fringe of your robe. "It was right there."

Zoe nodded heedfully, "Did the Supreme perform a liturgy on you?"

You blinked profusely, as tears cascaded down your flushed cheeks. "Yes..." You murmured sheepishly, casting your timid gaze to the side. 

"I think it's best if we bring you to him," she stated leisurely, as Kyle nodded in agreement. "He'll know what to do."

༒

With both forearms slinging over Zoe and Kyle's necks, you shuffled down the foyer winding to the Supremes office. Your body was in a state of agony, the clear skin that had been seared the night before was now boiling with a scorning heat of anguish. 

Zoe's fist pounded into the white, french double-doors clamorously, as she panted from the effort of dragging you up the marble stairwell. The floorboards creaked stridently from the opposite side of the corridor, before it swung open flagrantly. 

The Supremes eyes were wide and attentive, boring holes through your scathing skin, as the moonstone-ore of his irises twinkled nebulously. His under-eyes were puffy and purple, painted in exasperation and fatigue, as he blinked copiously. 

"I'm sorry to-"

Ren disregarded Zoe's bleated apology, brushing both of them off of you and scooping you up into his bulky arms, instead. Your frame was limp in his embrace as he tumultuously scampered over to his desk. He nudged a collection of manuscripts and miscellaneous supplies off of the surface, before pliantly sprawling you out on the desk. 

"Zoe," he beckoned her with the flick of his fingers, and she trotted into his office, accompanying him by his side. "Kyle, find Vicrul." 

Kyle obliged and sought out on an expedition to locate Vicrul, which could take months, in these refined walls of the Coven. 

You were writhing, stifling whimpers, as tears escaped the blockade of your sealed eyelids. Ren smoothed out your hair with his calloused palm, as Zoe fidgeted with supplies in the creaking drawers of his desk. 

"Where does it hurt?" His voice was gruff, as he flattened his other palm on your lower belly, and stroked the sensitive skin that was ablaze with a flame of misery. You winced, and he hummed in notation. Both of his long fingers fumbled with the drawstrings of your robe, as he tediously untied the silk knot, and unswathed the forefront of your body. 

"R-Ren, there was s-something in the kitchen," you wailed out, blubbering curses and hissing in pain as he shimmied the hem of your nightgown up; revealing the modest areas of your thighs, panties, and your lower belly. 

The Supreme took a cavernous step backwards. His features, maintained that stoic, void-of-emotion expression, as his rough fingertip traced the raw gash that was now embedded into your flesh. 

"Clairvoyance," he muttered to himself, in a dignified tone that wavered between dubiety and galvanized. His fingers protruded the gash, smearing the pools of crimson along your stomach, as you shivered and croaked at the impact of his merciless digits.

Zoe stilled, swaying on her feet, as her eyes darted between your arduously squirming figure, and the Supremes leisure plucks of his fingers. "Clairvoyance." She retorted slowly, palming the surface of the desk, and looming over your figure to concentrate on the symbol engraved into your skin. 

"Nan." Zoe beamed, a sorrowful smile tugging at her lips, as they quirked up on the side. The Supreme hummed in response, smirking. 

"Pardon?" You exhaled. 

"Nan," she repeated, circling the desk, propping her elbows up by your splintering head. "She was one of our sisters. But thanks to Fiona, she couldn't..." She glanced at the Supreme bashfully, as if for permission, and he nodded curtly. "All of us— Me, Kyle, Madison... and Queenie," her voice trailed off malevolently.

"Died. A long time ago... but thanks to our Supreme, he was able to bring us all back." She gestured towards Ren, as his honey-speckled gaze settled on your stomach, and he poked his inner cheek with his tongue. "Except for Nan." 

Ren flinched at her diligently carved words, blinking harshly, sinking his canines into the corner of his rouge, bottom lip. "She was clairvoyant, as well." He stated, his voice had dropped a few octaves, and his black tendrils swayed with shame. "Both of you possess the capability to sense the future, and hear the thoughts of the uncensored." 

His words were merely coherent to your scribbled, twinging mind, as they tediously registered in your swollen brain. Your eyebrows crinkled together, as you remorsefully observed the crack in his facade. The loathing, and the treachery, of Nan's prolonged, nonviable resurrection weighed his shoulders down with palpable guilt, as the culpability ate away at his consequentialness.

"So what I saw down there..." Your glossy eyes were penetrated by the Supremes, as his, bloodshot and dejected, scorned through yours.

"Was the future. Yes." He nodded, pursing his perfectly plump lips, licking them. 

"W-who did I see dead?" You blubbered, inhaling sharply, just as Kyle and Vicrul sauntered into the office with quizzical expressions. 

The Supremes chest heaved, as he avoided your quarrying gaze, staring at Vicrul as his eyebrows furrowed inquisitively. "What happened?" Vicrul asked hesitantly, before pivoting to face you. He suppressed a gasp, his heavy boots trudging over to the desk, as he eyed your disheveled abdomen through hooded eyes. When everybody remained silent, he poked the gash in your skin gingerly and repeated himself. 

"I don't know..." You rasped. "I found something in the kitchen." 

Vicrul's shoulders sloped down in vexation, as he sucked in a breath through his barred teeth, and shot malicious daggers at you with his keen, emerald eyes. "I told you to stay out of the kitchen." He snarled the words brashly, and you cowered, attempting to sink deeper into the mahogany desk. "If you would've just-"

"Enough." The Supreme intervened, his breaths deep and tranquil, his demeanor neutral and pacific. 

"Leave her alone. She—"

Kyle's defensive bleat was cut off by the Supremes raspy growl, as he swiveled around and slammed his clenched fist into the desk. "I said, enough." He grumbled, searing holes through every individual leisurely, as he scanned the clustered office. "You two." He scowled at Zoe and Kyle, "Breakfast is served at nine." 

Both of them mimicked a shameful dog, strutting out of the office with a cowering stance and their tails tucked, as you suppressed a whine and rolled the hem of your nightgown back down, the satin material tumbling down to your thighs. 

Vicrul was silent, shifting from foot to foot in turmoil, as the Supreme folded at the waist, hovering over you. He slipped his hands beneath your frame, pressing his palms into your shoulder blades, hoisting you into a sitting position as you grunted and clasped onto his black button-up shirt for support. 

"So, the liturgy actually did work?" You swallowed the thick droplets of molasses and snot slithering down your throat, as you sniffled and eyed him attentively. 

Stroking his jaw, he disregarded you and averted his attention to Vicrul. "Colligentes unguento unguebat." He commanded to him in Latin, and you blatantly rolled you eyes, as he refused to indulge you. It was trepidating, when numerous, catastrophic events occurred, and you were forbade from eloquenting any of it. 

Vicrul complied to his unintelligible demands, slipping past the threshold. His durable strides caused the floorboards to belch, and echo around the caving walls bricking you inside. As Ren ruffled with his coiled locks, you heard the soft mewl of a creature, and perked up. 

Ren smirked diabolically. He crouched down, and you beamed at him as he scooped up a fluffy, black kitten, with honey-canary eyes that glistened beneath the bold sunlight cascading through the windows. 

He feathered his tattoo-peppered hand through the kittens thick coat of fur, with the corner of his lip quirked up. The kitten squeaked, and nestled into his chest, as he raked his fingers, that were garbed in lavish rings, through its dark main, that resembled his in a way.

He pressed a kiss to the crown of the kittens fluffy head with his plump lips, before he tenderly placed it in your lap and gave it one last stroke with his fingers. 

"Her names Luci," he stated blandly, as you cooed and squealed to the little kitten, scratching its arching back as it purred at your touch. "Short for Lucifer." 

You nodded with a cheeky grin, rubbing Luci's tummy as she rolled over on her back, and outstretched her tiny paws. 

"People around here tend to believe that black cats are bad luck," he mumbled solemnly, petting her again, with the touch of a smile ghosting his lips. "But they offer guidance and protection to those who look past their coats of fur, and focus on their hearts." 

There was a gleam of sombertude in his hazel eyes, as he leaned into the desk, propping up his elbows and softly scratching the back of his neck, observing you. 

"I've never understood, why people are so quick to judge one another." You pondered audibly, humming gently to yourself, as you peered down at the kitten. "You can never truly understand someone, if you judge them by first impression."

The cogs of comprehension clanked in his mind, as he stared at you with reluctant alleviation. A scarlet blush creeped onto your cheeks, and you fidgeted with the tip of the kittens tail coyly. 

"I'm starting to believe you are too good for this Coven, my dear." He mused, with a dark, breathy chuckle, snickering to himself. "I wish everyone could be as kind-hearted as you, but they can't." He sheepishly pivoted away from you, glimpsing the solemn view of Salem through the window with his arms crossed defiantly. "Some of us try to do the right thing. But the right thing, is never an easy task to fulfill."

His mellow, humbling words elicited a ping of curiosity in your heaving chest, as everything that Zoe said just moments before swept through the tranquil plains of your mind like a splintering, ruthless hurricane. 

"Um, Ren?" You murmured softly, and he peered at you from over his broad shoulder, his leather oxfords squelching. "May I ask you something?" 

He nodded and hummed leisurely in approval, nearly heedfully, as he cocked a brow. 

"What happened... to all of my sisters?" You breathed, and the Supreme stiffened, rooting himself to the floor with flared nostrils. "How did they die, before you brought them back?"

His porcelain features twisted into a scowl, and you gulped, only for his diabolic dynamic to be replaced, and refurbished with the purest demeanor of a remorseful saint.

He took a prolonged stride nearer to you, gingerly ladling Luci and removing her from your lap. His ginormous, calloused, ornately painted hands cradled your temples. "Let me show you." He whispered barbarously, his dark eyelashes fluttering shut, his breath fanning out your tousled hair. "Be est mecum."

A striking twinge of electricity bolted through your pulsating, invigorating veins, and you let out an ebullient gasp, as blinding shades of white flashed before your aghast eyes.

Flames. Scathing, scorning bushels of crackling, boisterous flames, swallowed the Coven— and all of the girls convoying it. They shrilled, and shrieked, as they combusted, being consumed by the blazing shades of merciless fires. Your mother, Cordelia, was splayed out in the crunchy, brown-tainted tendrils of shriveled grass, unconscious and merely flayed. 

Until the flames froze. The horrendous scene unfolding before you was paused, as the scent of billowing smoke lingered. 

And the Supreme emerged from a place that was foreign and volatile. With the deliberate swirl, and the benign mechanisms of his large, leather-garbed fingers, the flames were enveloped by the void of the scarlet painted skyscape, as a lenient smile nestled into his lips. 

Cordelia rasped poignantly, as she staggered into a crumpled kneeling position. The Supreme approached her with vigilant, calculated steps, in his heavy combat boots, as his velvet cloak billowed with the smoke entranced breeze. 

"My girls!" Cordelia wailed wretchedly, teetering sobs eliciting from the depths of her scalded throat, cradling her swollen heart in her hands as she shrilled blood-curdling screams of defeat. 

The Supreme hovered over her, casting the malevolent, nefarious shadow of his silhouette down upon her thrashing figure. He peacefully inhaled the intoxicating fumes, before outstretching his palm, and washing the carcass of the tarnished, crackling Coven over with a wave of serenity, as the gasps of each individual sister being greeted with the light of life filtered the oxidized air. 

"Miss Goode!" Strained voices croaked, and heaved, and belched, as the Supreme raked in the sight before him for only a few seconds; flamboyant, satisfied with his production, before he curled his leather fist around the ruby-embedded handle of his cane. 

Cordelia only sputtered, and pivoted to face him, her black eyes accumulating the light-shades of gratitude, as she smiled at him with quivering lips. He winked at her prudently, tapping the hilt of the cane into the corroded grass.

You were disengaged from the horrific, albeit mollifying scenes before you, as warm thumbs caressed the tears off of your crimson cheeks. You blubbered nonsense, blinking feverishly to recollect yourself, as you clasped onto Ren's forearms for stability.

"Your mother blamed herself for the fire," Ren mumbled dully, speaking with overtation, softly threading his fingers through Luci's fur, scooping her back up in his embrace and pecking her on the fuzzy ear. "Her abilities as the Supreme were faltering... due to her pregnancy. With you." He stated, as you raked in lungfuls of air. "She couldn't stop the fire, because of her weakening powers...

She was originally my enemy. As a warlock, my brothers frowned upon witches, and we were taught to defy them." He rambled tediously, to aid you in processing all of his molten words. "But as the fire sprouted, I could connect with your mother in that moment, and despite being shunned and nearly sentenced to death by burning from my own brothers, I chose to save her Coven." 

Luci purred and kneaded her furry head into his jaw, as he nestled into her and fiddled with the short tendrils of her fur gently. "It was the greatest decision of my life. Being your teacher, means the world to me," he gingerly drawled your name, smooth like silk at the tip of his tongue. "Because I finally get to repay your mother for leaving me all of this." He gestured to the ivory, art deco walls of the Coven. 

You scoot towards the edge of the desk, flailing your legs from side to side leisurely, as the whirlpool of your haywire thoughts threatened to torment your brain. "Oh... oh my goodness." You giggled in disbelief, shaking your head frivolously, as Ren stood merely two feet away, towering over you with Luci squishing into his face as he hunched his shoulders and swayed her back and forth. 

"So... so what happened to Nan?" You asked, with the pinch of your brows, as you cinched your waist with the drawstring of your robe. "Was she really clairvoyant like me?" 

Ren sighed mundanely, placing Luci back on your lap, his hand patting your thigh as he leaned towards you. "She was." He pursed his lips and suppressed a frown. "But she got mixed up with the wrong witch, and she was sacrificed to a gatekeeper of the spiritual realm..." He noted the bewildered recoil of your head as you blinked harshly. "A dangerous spirit, of the name Papa Legba, and I nearly drained my powers just trying to bring her back." His deep exhale trembled, as he pushed himself off of you and sauntered towards the door. 

"But she's trapped with him." He bleated somberly, before averting the subject elsewhere within a matter of seconds. "Now, I need you to show me where you saw this... body." 

༒

You flattened your tumulus palm into the grimy surface of mosaic tile, where you envisioned the eroded, dismantled corpse. You could feel a staticky, tingling warmth slithering up your forearm, as the Supreme watched from a distance. 

"I don't see anything," you groaned monotonously after a few moments of lifelessness, other than the Supremes deep breaths. 

"Give it time, my dear." He pried appeasingly, snickering wryly to himself as you pouted and shifted on your knees. "Patience." He reprimanded, squinting at you through one eye, as he leaned into a stone pillar buttressing the kitchens ceiling. 

You chewed your bottom lip to stifle a scowl, taking a few solace breaths, and vacating the expanse of your overworked mind, outstretching your palm with aspiration and perseverance. 

The warmth stimulated in your fingertips, nipping at your palm, snaking up your arm, until the peculiar tingles embrace your shoulders and swathed your neck. The prickling sensation creeped up your throat, flushing your face with a tactile heat, before the sting protruded your brain, and you jolted as a kaleidoscope of emotions and fruitless memories distorted the blackness of your eyelids. 

The blinding, keen edge of a dagger sliced through the blissful, chocolately flesh of a young, plump girl. She blabbered, as her stouty, clammy fingers clasped onto the gash in her throat. She stumbled backwards, colliding into the tile floor, her body hiccuping as hot jets of crimson spurted from the raw slash embedding into her thyroid. 

"Queenie." You rasped, escaping the paralyzation of your own trepdiating powers and scrambling backwards, gasping in air. "Her name was Q-Queenie." 

The Supreme froze, staring at the emptiness encompassing the floor. "It can't be." He sucked on his teeth, shaking his head in denial. "She's with Marie. There's no way for her to get back into this Coven, she has been banished, for abandoning her sisters." His baritone, malicious voice roared, as spit hurdled past his barred teeth. 

"It was Queenie." You repeated earnestly, glaring up at him as you smoothed out the hem of your nightgown and staggered back to your feet. "She was murdered. And when I saw her body earlier this morning... she had been dismembered."

He feathered his fingers through his black, sheeny locks apprehensively, crouching down to be level with the tiles. His forearms limply dangled off of his muscular thighs, his jaw clenching tautly, as he cracked his tattooed knuckles. 

"You have some time to nap before breakfast," he sighed. He clasped his temple brashly, before softening his demeanor and glancing up at you. "You've had a long night. I can figure all of this out." He traced the muddied crevices of the tile with his fingertip. 

"Are you sure?" You asked timidly, and he nodded in reassurance.

"Of course." He scoffed flamboyantly, arrogance etched into his tone. "Now go to sleep. You are excused from breakfast. Take the time you need to recover from all of this." 

You complied to the Supremes dictating suggestions without haste, as you carried your fatigued limbs up the main stairwell, and trudged back to the dormitory— sleep overtook your trembling body within the first second you were greeted with the cotton sheets of your cot.


	6. The Field Trip

In the tedious span of an excruciating twenty-four hours, your chastity has proved to be nimble and brittle, so simply demolished by the salaciousness of the Supreme, whose priorities were categorized by lechery and malevolence. 

If he thrived off of your purity, that's roots were tethered and trimmed by the amiable aptitude of your benign mother, he made his lewd desire blatant. There was no steel facade to protect that dam of libido that threatened to spill, for he could feel his bulge straining his pants at the single sight of your cheeks glowing crimson with coyness.

You were frightened. Perturbed, by the mere thought of him, and he may be clairvoyant, but it was apparent by the simple bleakness of sheepishness flushing your cheeks, and the antsy bounce of your heel. 

And he sensed that you were plotting an amiable scheme for him, he just couldn't wrap his brain around what that exploit could be.

It was deliciously exhilarating, to him, because your moral compass was spiraling in bewildering, diverting directions, and your innocence was tactile at the tip of his warm tongue, sweet and scrutinizing. 

Staring was the only communication he could muster, because you were meekly avoiding his serpentine spectral's, by distracting yourself with the ruckus emitting from the dark foyer to the kitchen— the visions of egregious crime were embedded into your brittle mind. 

You were naive and incompetent, simple to break and dismantle, even easier to refurbish with a little coaxing and caressing. The Supreme swore that he would break you, and demolish you, until you were just withered threads of loss hope. Cordelia had trusted him to nurture you, and dear Satan in the realm below, would he tame you with the strikes of his whips of hein. 

Servants scrambled around, piling sugary concoctions on everyone's platters. With a healthy balance of fruit on the side, the Supreme proposed a rule to himself, that the natural sugar canceled out the processed sugar, and he would be safe from the risks of obesity.

His motives for things were oriental and peculiar, and he could hear the way you speculated his strange ordeals and mechanisms. You were inquisitive, curious. He admired that about you, only he was aware of the chaos that your quarry would fabricate. 

And he yearned for that havoc to strike. Craved for the moment you would pluck the wrong petal, and be prickled and bloodied by the wrong thorns, because he needed to be the one to suck the crimson from your innocence clean. 

He lit a cigarette briskly, the slender, white stick crammed between two of his thick fingers. Dangling from the corner of his plump lips, he tilted his head just a minuscule, narrowing his eyes at you.

Breakfast was served at approximately nine; the Supreme was meticulous, ornate about the minisculest of things, as you've perceived, by his orthodox behaviors and capricious aptitude. 

For when Madison sauntered into the dinning room, a minute past the adjured, unambiguous time of nine on a frisky Salem morning, you watched that spark of pique flare in the Supremes hazel eyes from the foot of the table.

You watched vigilantly, on the edge of your creaky, mahogany seat, as the titanium of his pastry fork bleated and dinted in the merciless grasp of his clenching fist. Those eyes, that were golden with contempt, seared holes of vexation through Madison's petite frame as she scuffled across the floor in her pumps. 

She rolled her eyes with blatant, disrespectful disdain, as she plopped down into her designated seat with an exaggerated sigh, cupping her soft, olive cheek and propping her elbow on the black tablecloth encompassing the long, narrow table. 

Gulping down your trepidation, you dropped your hooded, fatigued gaze to the moist slice of banana bread articulating on your platter. Using a fork, you scooped a piece of the slice off, only for the Supreme to boisterously clear his throat at you. 

You glanced at him, the fork and portion of bread hovering near your mouth, that was practically salivating at the proximity of the warm, plush bread. 

"Use the pastry fork." He demanded mundanely, and you blinked at him, before haphazardly scraping the piece of bread off of your fork, and cladly scooping up the correct silverware with a sheepish smile. 

He observed you attentively, his eerily mollified gaze trained on your hand, as you poked the bread gingerly and hesitantly brought it to your mouth. You chewed leisurely, nimbly, as he zoned in on the cluster of food poking at your cheek, before his eyes traced the bulge in your neck as the bread slithered down your throat. 

The drumming of your heart pounded in your ears, your breath harbored in your lungs. He then glared at Madison in his peripherals, his features contorted into a depiction of malice and hein. 

"Madison," he growled, slamming his barred fist into the tables creaky surface. She flinched, clearing her parched throat, peering at him heedfully. "Must I remind you of our rules?"

Madison glared at you through the clumpy vail of her mascara coated eyelashes, as if she was pinning the blame of her audaciousness on you. "Rule number one," she sighed. "No having fun in this shithole of a Coven." 

She snickered immorally at herself, and you only winced, as you anticipated a gory, merciless outcome from the Supremes reaction. Only, he permitted you and the cluster of apprehensive sisters with nefarious silence.

His stability was faltering. Madison failed to respect the diminutive rules that had been margined for the sake of his girls. You scooping up the wrong fork, irked his pristine, ethical soul. He was teetering towards the barbaric ledge of insanity. Disruptions of his plans always habituated indignation in the fragmentary pieces of his morals. 

His heart was lodged in his throat, with vigorous, spleen repercussions. Pulsating in his throbbing head. He was on the verge of snapping the nearest neck his large, twitching hands could ladle. Madison was next to him. 

Her flamboyant existence was temperamentally fidgeting with his stout. He always perceived her as poised and ungrateful. He fantasizes about the contenting solitude that would come from just discarding her. 

"Um, Supreme?" Your voice was nimble and shaky, shucking the atrocious, cruel thoughts from his mind. "May I be excused, please?"

He zoned in on you, his amber irises fogged with flagitiousness. Ivory tendrils of smoke billowed around his grueling face, as he clenched his jaw, and exhaled jagged spurts of white through his flaring nostrils. 

"Yes." He grumbled monotonously, nodding leisurely, staring at you through hooded eyes as he puffs on his cigarette. 

Zoe and Kyle stirred, picking around at their porcelain plates. Madison scoffed acidically, cramming a quantity of lemon tarts into her mouth. "She's excused? Seriously?" She glowered, her voice muffled, as crumbs spilled from her lips. "Someone's playing favorites already." 

The Supreme acknowledged her envious words with a grunt, smashing his cigarette into a kaleidoscopic ashtray, dabbing the sparking bud down, as he ascended from his seat bleakly and exhaled a hefty wave of smoke.

"All of you are excused," he uttered tritely, clearing his throat. "Everyone be ready in an hour. Meet in the common room, ten on the dot."

Everyone scrambled from there seats, and you hovered in your cowered stature. "Get ready for what?" You asked, bolder than you originally conveyed. 

"A field trip." He retorted wryly, shuffling past the threshold without sparing you any details.

~

"What the hell are you wearing?" Madison sneered, glaring at you from her half of the dormitory, as you smoothed out your black pencil skirt and twirled around in the full length mirror plastered on the wall.

"A skirt," you chimed, flashing her a benevolent smile, as she rolled her eyes. 

She sighed, her dainty shoulders slouching, as she prolonged her critical snarl. Only for her chocolately-brown irises to soften when she soaked in your contagious hospitality. She relented, swallowing her pride and stifling her ego, before speaking to you in a tone with lesser snark.

"It's pretty hideous," she chuckled, and you suppressed an amused grin, as you noted the hint of playfulness etched into her raspy tone. "You could borrow one of my dresses if you wanted." 

You raised your eyebrows in shock, adjusting the straps of your bra, "Really?" 

She nodded agilely, springing up from her cot and rummaging through her wardrobe. She jerked a random, skimpy black dress off of its hanger, squinting her eyes and holding it out to its full length. 

"I think we can stuff you into this one," she bleated flagrantly, and a ripple surfaced in your brow, as you laughed nervously. She tossed it in your direction inattentively, and you heedfully caught it, mumbling your gratitude. 

You shimmied out of your skirt, squeezing yourself into the black, suffocatingly tight dress. Your breasts spilled from the top of the dress, revealing your stuffed, perky cleavage, and you grimaced at your sultry reflection in the mirror. 

Madison strutted up behind you, smirking at you giddily, "See? You could be hot if you dressed less like a woman in her forties suffering through menopause." She chirped in a candied, bittersweet tone.

You disregarded her brash attempt of befriending you, fidgeting with your flimsy, wide-brimmed fedora. Zoe had lended you a handful of her makeup products, and you managed to contour the blemishes in your face, and paint over the cracks in your lips with a creamy, burgundy lipstick. A black pair of Cat-eye sunglasses framed your face, as you bashfully sucked the smudged lipstick off of your teeth. 

"Guys?" Kyle sauntered into the dormitory with a quaint knock on the door, both you and Madison averted your attention to him, as you added the final touches to your ominous, cryptic disguises. "The Supreme expects us in five minutes."

You nodded heedfully, scampering to the threshold in your velvet black pumps, that clanked into the mosaic tiled flooring promiscuously. Madison complyingly followed you with prudent trudges. 

The pearls adorning your necklace bristled together with each hop of your heeled, blistering feet. Madison was sulking, as the two of you, and the orthodox duo— Zoe and Kyle— tiptoed down the marble stairwell, crossing paths with you and a dubious Madison in the common room.

"What exactly does a field trip with the Supreme entail?" You asked apprehensively, as everyone exchanged perturbed, pitiful glances.

"It probably won't be that bad..." Zoe coaxed, eyebrows weaving together in contagious turmoil, as Madison piped in, "But it's never good." 

As if summoned by the brittle murmur of his title, the Supreme stomped into the common room, his pristinely polished oxfords clanking into the floor and reverberating off of the enclosed walls. His attire was lavishly daunting, black and diabolically tantalizing. 

Crisp black pants clutching his legs. A long, jet-black trench coat swathing his brawny build and toppling to his broad calves. Black leather gloves encompassing his tattoo decaled fingers. A black, flat fedora mounted to the crown of his head, clashing with his raven coils that framed his brooding face in overwhelmingly titillating ways. A black cane cladded in silver and red rubies was the victim of his vice grasp. 

And if you squinted your eyes, you could articulate a thin layer of smudged eyeliner margining his honey-speckled irises, that were vibrantly exuberant in comparison to his black attire. 

You were melting into a puddle of lechery, as his appearance proved to be perfectly flawed and deliciously lethal. As if he doused you in carnal gasoline, and taunted you with the flick and sputter of his salacious lighter. As if he was flamboyant enough to believe he had that superiority and faculty over you. 

That he does have over you.

He bristled past you, only to pause, once he caught a lustrous wift of the perfume you spritzed yourself with. He methodically took two slow steps back. He smirked down at you prudently, grazing your hip with his leather garbed fingers. 

"Nice dress," he mused, flashing you his sharp, pearly canines, swirling his cane in his grasp, as he continued on his pliable path of expedition. He snapped his fingers demandingly, "Umbrellas." 

Everyone obliged to his fragmentary command, flapping their umbrellas open— that you and the girls had matching sets of, with black, lace embroidery— except for you. You hesitated, before bleating, "Isn't it bad luck to open umbrellas indoors?"

The Supreme froze. His oxfords rooted to the floor, his back swelling, the tendons flexing, as he inhaled stridently. 

He cooed your name softly, candidly, before pivoting to face you with a brisk sneer, "The only fucking bad luck you need to worry about is what happens if you don't obey your Supremes orders."

Sheepishness painted your cheeks scarlet. The stoicism of his complexion perplexed you, for it crumbled, and he smirked at you, making his candor infeasible to formulate. 

"Come then."

~

Pebbles were lodged into the crevices of your toes, as you and your sisters topple through the rubble terrain of the shrubby, disheveled plains of Salem— sauntering through the eerily quaint village in an apprehendingly straight line.

Hips swaying, pumps clacking, all of you were radiating power and glory that was tangible amongst the trivial civilians of Salem, whom either glowered and snarled, or gaped in awe, at the sight of your Coven owning the subdued streets. 

Of course, the Supreme was the brawniest and nefarious of them all, guiding the assemble of young, immoral girls through the slender sidewalks. The flaps of his trench coat swayed with his heinous, calculated strides, his eyebrows knitted into a determined hardline, jaw barred and demeanor unfathomably cruel. 

He granted a few solemn pedestrians with the nimble nod of his flat cap, the majority of them swooning over his dealthly attractive, consequential features. His cane, that was just for the iniquitous, vile effect, as opposed to aiding his stability that was far from faltering, thumped into the cement boisterously.

The sun was beaming down, with bleak, golden rays, peaking through the gashes of your umbrellas and speckling dots of amber on your skin. Only, the sun was whiter, than gold. It was dull, and melancholic. The downcasting clouds in Salem tended to stroll slower, and puff out dejectedly darker, as well. 

Strolling through a secluded cabernet, you pondered and fabricated the ideas you had been conveying instead of napping, as the Supreme had suggested. After the discussion you shared earlier in the agile morning, slumber was uncharitable. All you could articulate was the unbearable sombertude of the stories he indulged you with. 

About the fall of your mothers reign as Supreme. About the inauspicious death of Nan, your deceased sister. About his bittersweet advice and neglectful words. 

All of it was bombarding your tranquility. You wished to dissolve all of these doleful, past tragedic elements of the Supremes life, only you were picking apart the pieces of his words by the seams, struggling to knit them back together. 

The only plausible thing you could heal, or refurbish, was the life of Nan. If you learned the ideal spells to reincarnate her. The Supreme would never teach you, for he expressed the dangers and exasperating duties of it all, how the effort nearly drained him of his witching prosperities. But your powers were negotiable. You would lose them, in order to restore an innocent girls life. 

Nan and you both were clairvoyant, desolating souls; hers bargained for the greed of your grandmother, and yours, free and pulsating vibrantly. There are sacrifices you'll be forced to risk, just to make hers beat in rhythm like yours again. And despite that virtuous reputation of yours, you would shun your morals, and tuck the blade of treachery behind your back just to save the lost witch. 

You were disengaged from your thoughts by the bleating, exaggerated groans of Madison. Noticing that you were now strutting uphill, you shifted the power to your heels, heaving and clamoring onto the hem of your dress as you all trudged to the peak of the hill.

Once you reached the top, a dip in the bland, gray valley off in the distance revealed a burnt, tarnished wood pillar plastered in the center of the bleak plains. Everyone exchanged dubious, bewildered glances, including you and Madison, who cocked inquisitive brows at each other. 

"Look at the pillar." The Supreme uttered, his shoulders squared and posture disturbingly straight, as he clasped both of his veiny fists around the knob of his cane, and peered off at the barren view. "Tell me what you see." 

Madison was swift to perk up, and snap, "I see a waste of time. What the hell is this field trip about, anyway?" She snorted, and you stifled a laugh, her blatance beginning to wear off on you. "Just another boring old stroll, through boring old Salem, for the new girl?"

The Supreme was on the verge of crushing her windpipes with the minisculist snap of his fingers. The diminutive morality that he still harbored was slipping away, but he caught it, just before it could entirely disengage from his heaving body. 

Instead of barking out the words that were heating the tip of his tongue, he only beckoned you with the deep, soft murmur of your name, as you stumbled to his side. Your forearms brushed, and he instinctively jerked you protectively to his side, as if he was attempting to shield you from the snark of Madison. 

"Call it what you must, Madison." He sighed, leisurely swiveling to face her, as his unrelenting grip tightened around your frail wrist. "A waste of time. Boring." 

Her body was manipulated by a volatile apparition, as she gasped, and plummeted to the ground at the ledge separating Salem from the valley. The Supreme smirked at his capabilities, that appeared to grow stronger as he aged, even though contrarily, he was losing them tediously by the second, and pumping the next Supreme full of these ominous powers. 

"But you're going to appreciate this later, when you're strung up on that very pillar, being doused in gasoline and set ablaze for your lethargy." He mundanely tusked the words at her, his tone sheltering a hint of pride.

"Does everyone understand?" He mused flamboyantly, and all of you heedfully nodded, as the invisible pine upon Madison's body released itself. 

The Supremes attentive stare loitered on you copiously, raking you in, from the breasts to the coy face. "Do you understand?" His tone dropped a few octaves, his dark eyebrows raising at you. 

"No?" You breathe, hushing your tone to refrain from being heard by your sisters, and Kyle, that was suited up in an all black tux. "Are you threatening to... catch us on fire?" 

His diabolical smirk deepened. "Sort of," he retorted earnestly, ripping his hand away from your wrist and rolling his rigid shoulders. "If your sisters don't start learning how to respect their Supreme, it won't be long before you witness them perish." 

Your heart stammered in your chest, as Kyle glowered at the Supreme from over his shoulder, "Zoe has done nothing wrong. Madison is the one who can't keep her mouth shut." He jabbed an accusing finger at Madison, who had her jaw dropped in feigned astonishment. 

"Shut the fuck up, Kyle!" Madison hissed, leaping up from the green tendrils of swaying grass. "That's not what you were saying that time you, me and Zoe fucked back in New Orleans!" 

Zoe scowled, plowing to her feet, waving an aggressive finger in Madison's face, "Only because you were an entitled, lonely dead bitch! Look at you, you're still jealous that nobody will love you the way Kyle loves me." 

Madison twirled her fingers idly at her side, sending Zoe toppling backwards, as she widened her stance and rebuilt her slipping facade of flagrance. The Supreme was disregarding their bickering completely, as you watched in fear and turmoil, tears brimming your own eyelids due to their hostility. 

"You know what, Zoe?" She hummed softly, crossing her arms defensively. It was clear that deep down, her stability had been plucked, and her emotions had been tampered. "If it weren't for me, you wouldn't even have Kyle, now would you?" 

Zoe sighed, releasing the tension from her drooping shoulders. "The ritual we performed to bring him back hardly worked, Madison. If it weren't for Misty, he would've been just as better off dead than alive." 

Madison's guard was threatening to collapse, but fortunately for her, the Supreme intervened before she could respond.

"That's enough girls," he stated grimly, clenching his jaw and glaring pointedly at them both, "Handle your love triangle tribulations elsewhere. This is a time to connect with the witches that had been burned to the stake, just like you could be, if you disobey the rules mandated by the counsel."

Despite his scolding, the last words that Zoe retorted peaked your interest. Ritual. Reincarnating. Misty. You inhaled sharply, swiveling around the Supreme and creeping up on them, "Whose Misty?"

Madison shifted uncomfortably on her heeled feet, and Zoe only exchanged a cordial glance with Kyle as she reminisced. 

The Supreme cleared his throat acidically, his disapproval on the subject poignant, as he barricaded you from your sisters with his colossal frame. He peered down at you with a gleam of admonishment in his hazel eyes, as you bowed your head timidly and avoided his warped, despicable gaze. 

"What are you up to?" He asked firmly, ethically and leisurely. 

The crestfallen breeze billowed through his dark, wavy tendrils of hair, wafting into his stoic, imperturbable face. The grueling beast sneering before you in expectancy of a bearable response, only enticed you with inclination, as opposed to frightened the answer out of you.

When you indulged him with silence, his leather garbed fingers pinched your jaw. He stridently angled your face to his own, as he folded at the torso to be level with you. 

"Tell me." He seethed in a hushed, but apathetically cold tone. His warm breath that reeked of Marlboro Reds wafted into your face, causing your eyelashes to flitter.

"Nothing," you lied, attempting to shuck him off of you, even though the scent of his breath was fueling a carnal desire so foreign to you deep within your core. "Just curious." 

The Supreme released his tantalizing grasp on your jaw, that was bruised with the indents of his cold fingers. "Curiosity is what got the little lamb slaughtered, you poor, sweet girl." He drawled the words with feigned remorse etched into his husky tone, "Your delicacy is too far fetched for the evil of this world."

It was in that moment, that the Supremes moral compass darted in the opposite direction of his original, nefarious ploys. Instead of being that heinous demon that would embark his claws into your vulnerable flesh, he would be the guardian angel that loomed over you with his masquerade of virtuosity. 

He needed to protect you from the cruelty of this world. His sociopathic tendencies were volatile, in this moment, or it could just be his other dignitized half puppeteering his immoral prime side. He had an abundance of diverting personalities, but his vileness was always the one that lingered despite the conjuring mix of the rest of them.

"Well, then I suppose curiosity will be the death of me." You quipped back, and his eyes were blown in shock to replicate saucers, when he heard the way you defiantly argued without a quiver in your tone or a blush on your cheeks. 

He was baffled, tilting his head sharply to blink at you. His cognitive skills were restored when you gulped apprehensively and sheepishly averted your gaze to the spectral valley. Of course his penetrative eyes would break your streak of confidence.

He sighed, "Misty was a witch skilled in healing and reincarnating." He answered your appending question idly, "Ironic that she's dead, isn't it?"

You suppressed the torpedo of questions and ideas swarming your mind. If Madison was capable of performing a ritual that brought Kyle back to life, then there was always an opportunity that she could teach you how to perform the liturgy on Misty. If you could locate her... and reincarnate her... could she be facultative enough to free Nan from her death and captivation under Papa Legba?


	7. Sweet Angel

Zoe's fingers raked through your hair gingerly. The soft bristles of her brush skimmed through your locks as she picks at the nits and tangles. Her reflection was earnest and amiable in the golden-trimmed mirror mounted to the common rooms main wall. 

The Supremes digits calmly collided with the keyboard of the grand piano, curating a pacifying atmosphere, and the melancholic chime of a dull tune. The fire churning in the colossal fireplace illuminated the space with an amber, flickering glow. 

Madison was sprawled unladylike on the white couch, popping her bubblegum boisterously, surveying a Chanel magazine. Vicrul and Kyle were pretentiously eyeing each other as they commuted through a serious game of chess. 

The dysphoric melody was coercing, alleviating and peaceful, loudly sweeping through the all-white common room. The Supreme was enraptured by the own harmony he inflicted. Broad shoulders stringing high, eyes sealed and dark eyelashes fluttering, Oxford-clad foot tapping with the dull music. 

Everything was eerily quaint, considering the 'field trip' you embarked on just moments before. The trip that was just a conquest designed to scare you into obeying the Supreme. Things were desolate on that cliff, when you were rendered information about the deceased Misty Day— and how her festering skills in vitality could be crucial for you to carry out the scheme you have been deliberating, ever since you were enlightened.

In order to bring Nan back. 

It would please the Supreme, by proving your worth and fidelity to the bond of your sisterhood. You were lost in this Coven. You had no idea where you belonged under this rule of lethargic witchcraft. You were a warped jigsaw piece that was struggling to fit into the overall puzzle. Hopefully, you would conduct the liturgy with avail, and uncover your capabilities. 

The Supreme murmured your name bleakly, eyes still screwed shut, fingers still dancing along the keyboard. He lifted one hand to beckon you indolently. 

Zoe applies one last stroke of the hairbrush to your hair, before slipping away. You scoot out of the cushioned barstool you were stationed on, flashing her an apprehensive glance in the mirror as you ascended from the seat. Your heels clacked in rhythm with the somber beat of the music, soft and persistent. 

You smoothed out the black dress clinging onto your figure— that you were loaned from Madison— and coyly slid into the booth, accompanying the Supreme. A subtle, prudent smirk toyed with his lips, the corners of his closed eyes crinkling together. 

"Do you play?" He demanded. His head inching towards yours leisurely, curiously. 

His eyes flashed open when you suppressed a response, nibbling on your lip nervously. You fiddled with your fingers in your lap, barricading his ravenous stare from your vision before he can worm himself into your mind. Those whiskey-amber eyes always scrutinized you with an intensity that left your knees wobbly, and your hospitable disposition wavering. 

"I- um." You shucked the egregious thoughts away before they clouded your comprehension. "Yes, my mother taught me." 

He hummed contently, sliding over flawlessly. His fingers followed his abrupt movement, the crisp fabric of his pants chafing the blackwood. He nodded curtly towards the keyboard. A silent, albeit commanding order.

You obliged, waiting for the proper moment to join the twiddling of his fingers that arduously skimmed around the keyboard. Once you did, the tune came out wonky and faltering at first, only to flatten and synchronize. 

"There you go..." He praised huskily, and you smiled heedfully. 

He increased the pace, dignified, as he observed you increasing yours in utilization. Your tongue poked past your chapped lips in concentration, brows knitting together, as the song morphs from that of a relaxing melody to an aggressive cheer.

His hands dispersed from the piano, and you smiled widely, boldly at him, as you changed the tempo and the song entirely. You memorized the chords of Seven Wonders by Stevie Nicks after countlessly scanning the sheet music your mother had stored away. You hummed the lyrics to yourself sheepishly, swaying with the music. 

"Fucking Stevie?" Madison snapped. You glanced around the Supremes hulking frame to peer at her, as she springs up from her cozy position and glowers at you. "Well. At least we know that Misty would've loved the new girl. They both have shitty taste in music." 

You heard her holler over the music, and you disregarded her malice. Keeping the pace of your fingers upon the dusty keyboard steady, transfixed on the sounds that fluently emitted from within the pianos complex carcass. 

"You're all dismissed." The Supreme barked over the music, and you heedfully relented the taps of your fingers, staring at him in bewilderment as he arises from the bench.

Everybody filed together and spilled out of the room— Zoe and Madison bickered and squabbled on their way out. Vicrul sulked after Kyle defeated him in their spontaneous game of chess. You pushed yourself out of your seat to follow them, only for the Supreme to halt you by circling your wrist. 

"Sit." He seethed, teeth gritted, face eerily composed as you gulped and complied. Lowering yourself back down with turmoil. 

He pivoted around deliberately, hands clasped behind his back, strides calculated as he paced the floor. A velvety black cloak garbed his figure, the cape billowing softly with his stomps. He pondered. You froze, heart stammering and lodged in your throat. 

He swiveled back around, approaching you methodically. You whimpered at the mere proximity when the stench of his faculty and sin wafted into your face. His features were stoic, the sacred beauty marks that peppered his skin obtainable from the lack of distance separating your faces. 

His calloused hand came up to caress your cheek and you flinched when his bare knuckles stroked your flesh— that burned crimson with distress and sheepishness. 

"What's going on inside that little head of yours?" He murmured ominously, hand skimming past your cheek to twirl a strand of your freshly combed hair.

His abhorrence and disdain were palpable. Expression cutthroat and cold. He scrutinized you with his honey stare as you swallowed and regained the courage to render him words.

"Nothing, sir." You breathe out the torrid air that you were harboring in your lungs. "Just enjoying the peace, I suppose." 

His eyes darkened, narrowing into contemptible slits. He clucks his tongue to the roof of his whiskey-scented mouth, large hand aggressively bounding a chunk of your hair and seizing you towards his menacing frame. 

"Hm." His hum was corrupt and lethal, navally and rumbling in the depths of his throat. "I never deemed you as one to blatantly address your superiors with a lie." 

You gulped, chin quivering. Eyes wide and alert, struggling to settle on one of his, hooded and grave. His grip abandoned the tendril of your hair, slithering down to your throat. Circling it tantalizingly, slowly. Engulfing it with his monstrous veiny hand.

Look at her dainty little neck bob... He thought. Molding into my grasp like clay. My hand is practically the curator of her fate.

Tears brimmed your eyelids when his vice-like grip revoked your breathing capabilities, crushing your windpipes with diligent intent. You pawed at his wrists, hoping to swat him out of existence, only for his hand to relentlessly convey itself into your throat harder.

He grinned diabolically. Oh, my sweet little angel. I could never hurt you. His intentions were faltering, indecisively wavering between cruelly salacious and purely endearing.

His groin wrenched and fed off of the pleas that gleamed wordlessly in your eyes, but his heart simultaneously twinged with remorse all the same when your doe gaze watered with fear and befuddlement. 

He reluctantly peeled his calloused hand from your throat, as you rasped in grateful heaps of air. It glides up your neck instead, housing itself upon your cheek, cupping and stroking it maternally. The fire of inclination continued to sizzle and burn in his irises, but this time, with something more virtuous scorching in them. 

"Turn around." He demanded lightly, tone harboring an immense amount of detriment and earnest. 

You obliged, confused, spinning to abide him. Back facing his chest. Your knees nearly buckled by the sheer thought of being blinded by his next movement. 

Then, his warm hands started to explore your thighs. Softly and respectfully. The nerves sprouted in your gut, twiddling and pulsating, as an obscene warmth pools in your stomach. You let out a small whimper as he traced the marks of cellulite surfacing on the backs of your thighs, learning them with his fingertips greedily. 

"Nobodies ever touched you this way. Have they, sweetheart?" He purred. It was stated as an implication, not a question. 

You shook your head lightly, hair billowing into your face with the briskly-embarrassing movement.

His large hands roamed your figure, pawing softly at your hips, kneading your hipbones. You could feel his liquor-tainted breath ghosting the side of your face, as he nestled his hard-on into your backside. 

You sucked in a sharp breath, feeling his massive bulge poking you through the materials that garbed your bodies. 

"Who do you want to be touched by. Hm?" 

His hands lightly propelled you forward, and you squeaked when your hands collided down into the keyboard. A morbid chirp of the keys rings around the common room. 

"You." You breathed. No hesitation or second thought: drunkened by the lechery that he planted inside of you by merely chafing your skin with his lustful touch. 

"Mm." He hummed in approval, plump lips ghosting your bare shoulder, as his fingers cinch the hem of your black dress. "You're learning so fast, little one."

You shuddered as his nails grazed your thighs, his fingers hiking the hem of your dress higher and higher. A sensation of trepidation— no... anticipation, was kindling in your core. Goosebumps lined your skin wherever his touch had been applied. Spit lapping, heart pounding, fingers trembling. 

He soothed your apprehension by burying his face into the crook of your neck. Softly suckling and kissing the sensitive area, as you giggled out a breathy mewl and tilted your head to allow him better access. He managed to slowly shuck the hem of your dress all the way over your ass, allowing the cold air to kiss the modest flesh. 

His lips continued to caress your throat, as he toyed with the cotton of your panties. Slipping his hand past the fabric clinging onto your cunt, teeth nibbling on your skin egregiously.

"I'm going to get you ready for me. Okay, sweet thing?" He murmured into your throat through a series of passionate, leisure kisses. 

You nodded, palms mounted to the keyboard, eliciting small, defeated chirps from the piano as you shifted to welcome his cumbersome figure that loomed over you carnally. 

"Good girl." He whispered.

His hand snaked down your mound, gently prying apart your folds. You stifled a whine when his rough-padded thumb stroked over your clit. He huffed in satisfaction into your throat, his teeth nipping, his bulge throbbing, as one hand remains on your hips to keep you stable. 

He rubbed deliberate circles into you, and you sighed in bliss, pressing your pelvis into his touch as he tsked. 

"Needy little thing, aren't you?" He mused sinisterly, lustfully, hand abandoning your hip and rounding your waist to grapple with your breast instead. 

"M-mhm." You croaked, still entirely new to the warm sensation of sexual pleasure. 

He rewarded you with a primal squeeze of the tit, kneading and rolling the clothed flesh in his large palm. Fingers teasing your puckering nipple, that hardened under his touch. 

You were already dripping for him. Just by the purposeful gropes and rubs of his fingers. Hot and bothered, flustered, skin warm and itching with desire. 

"Please... Supreme." Your voice quivered, meek and thick with longing— yearning for him to provide you with the attention you need in order to survive these peculiar sensations. 

"Shh." He cooed, fingers sliding away from your now slick core, and grasping the sides of your panties. He jerked them down aggressively, and you chirped as they rode down your legs, bundling weakly at your ankles.

He was blocking his true, sadistic side from slipping past his facade of decency. You could feel the way he held back his sickening urges, in fear of cracking your porcelain shell of innocence. He wanted to swathe you with his endearing coerces, and pipe you with his cruelty, all at once. 

His hand wrenched your hair back, roughly, by accident. He internally cursed himself for bestowing that pain on you, despite the arousel that churned in his abdomen in response to the whimper his action produced. 

You heard the agile zilch of his zipper. Then the subtle knead of his palm returned as it reacquainted with your hip. 

Something hot and sticky teased your entrance. You hiccuped on your breath, the swollen head of his cock smearing precum up and down your slit. Your hands shifted on top of the keyboard, eliciting another sound from the piano.

"Angel..." He murmured. "You're going to take me like a good girl aren't you? I'll be gentle.."

You whined, pushing back into him. "Yes, Supreme. Please... just-"

His tip sheathed your entrance and you gasped at the sensation, as he slowly eased his cock inside of you, internally noting your discomfort with each inch of himself he filled you with. He stretched and expanded your tight walls, leaving you gawking for stability. 

"Oh..." You shivered, your moan soft and rattling in your throat. 

The pain and ecstasy clashed together as he throbbed in your core and hissed under his breath. Pumping in and out deliberately, slowly, fingers threading through your hair and massaging your scalp, keeping your head angled back. 

He methodically increases his pace, his massive girth splitting your walls as he thrusts at a moderate tempo. You rasped and whimpered, the burn of his size lingering in your core, even as the bliss sweeped in to mingle with it.

"You're taking me so well." He cooed ravenously, fumbling and yanking your hair. His head swooped into yours at the side, chin resting on your shoulder, as he gradually slammed in and out of you, embracing you to stabilize you as you whine and accommodate his length. 

"Go harder please..." You cried. 

He complied to your mewled plea, thrusting inside of you nearly manically, cock plowing into your once unscathed cervix. You screamed, clamping your teeth down on your bottom lip to stifle your wails, head falling back and crashing into his broad shoulder.

He growled ominously in your ear, pumping into you mercilessly, gritting his teeth. The piano played an unethical, ear-piercing song as your hands slammed into the keyboard and fiddled around for an effortless search for support. 

Your bodies rocked and swayed together, your croaky moans mingling with his low grunts. His eye twitched in bliss, breaths coming out as labored spurts. Your lips were agape, raspy moans and bleats of pains dispersing your foaming mouth. 

At this moment, with your blatant submission to him, the Supreme could flip through the contents of your brain like a book. He could scout out the schemes that were articulating in that virtuous, enclosed mind of yours with little to no effort due to your compliance— that was his original goal. Now, buried balls deep into your overstimulated, dripping, virgin core, he couldn't bring himself to render anything other than the warmth of your cunt. 

"Such a sweet little angel." He whispered into your ear, words breathy and nearly slurred.

His praises churned that blissful desire bubbling in your core, your body jolting with pleasure as that oddly satisfying feeling from your last encounter with the Supreme starts to electrify your aching cunt. 

He could feel the way you clenched like a dammed vice around his cock, your peak ascending the ladder of euphoria. He harbored his breath in his lungs as he eased out of you, causing you to whine lewdly at the emptiness.

He pivoted you around, hoisting you up on the piano, the keys screeching as your ass plummeted into the keyboard. His enigmatic face was flushed and twitching with inclination, a single strand of coiled black hair dangling in his damp face. 

His hands grasped your hips, his pelvis slamming into yours. His cock pounded into you and you clamored, hands clawing at his suit-garbed back, jaw dropped. Your legs slothfully, limply looped around his torso, your back clapping into the board framing the piano.

"Supreme! Oh, fuck." You howled, face scrunched and nuzzling into his shoulder, as his nestled into your hair and raked in the lavender scent of your shampoo.

"Look at me." He commanded breathily, hand seizing your jaw and prying your face from his shoulder. Your hooded eyes engaged with his, flickering and fluttering as you nearly reach your orgasm. 

"You're mine." He rasped, dark eyebrows knitting together as he stifled another grunt and plowed into you even deeper. "Say it." 

"I'm yours!" You shrieked lasciviously. 

"That's right..." He praises lowly, fucking you mercilessly, wedging your burning core open. "Now, my little girl is gonna cum for me." 

All you could perceive was white as your orgasm shred through you and electrified every fiber of your being. Ears being lulled by static, as your long, strained, wanton moan cracked through your mouth. Body convulsing and jamming into the keyboards, the loud belching squeaks of now damaged keys echoing around the common room. 

"Yes... that's it." He purred as every last drop of cum drizzled from your core and coated his still-pounding cock. 

You latched onto his body for stabilization as he fucked you through the aftermaths of your thunderous orgasm. He grunted and pumped his hot seed deep inside of you without warning— but over the roar of his guttural groan, a splintering crack of wood reverberated around the common room. 

The piano completely collapsed. You yelped out a cry, as your bodies plummet into the eroded wreckage of the old piano. His massive body toppling on top of yours. He caught himself with his brawny arms before he could suffocate you with the sheer size of his monstrous build. Cum was still spurting from his dick inside of you, as you both breathlessly laid unmoving on top of the fragmented remains of the piano. 

"Are you hurt?" He asked haphazardly, stroking a strand of tousled hair out of your face, surveying you attentively.

You cracked a feather-light grin. 

"I'm okay." You giggled. "Are you?"

His honey-speckled eyes watched the way your pearly teeth gleamed in satisfaction, your perfectly pink lips curling into a broad smile. He couldn't help himself: his mouth dived in to steal a passionate kiss from your lips. 

Your eyebrows raised in astonishment as you moaned softly into his mouth, welcoming his torrid, eager kiss. You let him guide you, following the rhythm of his tongue as it clashed with yours. Chips of demolished wood were poking at your back, splintering your flesh, as you squirmed on top of the pile of wreckage and kissed lecherously. 

Your insides were hollowed and oozing cum. Heart drumming exuberantly against your chest. Legs trembling, breaths shaky. You never experienced a sensation as blissfully venereal in your whole eighteen-years on this drab earth, other than the aggressive pluck of his dick as it pounded that sweet-spot you never even knew existed. 

The pain was agonizingly delicious. It caught up with you once the high of your orgasm was vanquished. Inner thighs aching, core scorching and throbbing, body quivering. All of these factors were salacious emblems of your desire for the Supreme, and his eerily pacifying coerces. 

A quaint knock rattled the main doors to the common room and you gasped, lips detaching from the Supremes, as he peers down at you with a glint of prudence in his soft eyes. Vicrul emerged from the threshold, heedfully shoving the door open. 

He loitered by the door, blinking at you and the Supreme wearily, as you tried to shimmy yourself underneath his broad frame to hide your sheepish descollage. 

"Dinner has been prepared." He drawled reluctantly, although his voice was thick with smugness. "Take your time, sir." He directed to the Supreme, swiveling around and exiting the room with a deep, knowing chuckle. 

Your heart was racing at the encounter, saliva lapping in the back of your throat with embarrassment. Vicrul had just sauntered in here and saw you: sweaty, panting, the Supremes softening cock lodged into your cunt. Not to mention that you were sprawled out on the remains of the broken piano he had just fucked you relentlessly on. 

"You're excused from supper." He grumbled, easing out of you leisurely, as you whimpered at the lack of fulfillment. "Freshen up and rest a bit. I'll be up to have a discussion with you once I dismiss dinner."

You nodded, cum leaking down your thighs as you shucked the hem of your dress back down, that clings onto you tighter due to the sweat accumulating there. The Supreme tucked himself away and raked his fingers through his always middle-parted dark main. 

His lips found yours in another ginger, slow kiss, humming contently into your mouth. He pried you off of the split wood, circling your wrist softly, guiding you off of the ground. 

"Be ready to tell me everything, dear." He nearly glowered, contradicting compared to the boop he places on your nose with his long finger. At that he disappeared through the threshold, accompanying your sisters and Vicrul for dinner. 

—

Your fingers massaged your signature lavender soap into your scalp, digging and scrubbing vigorously. The hot water cascaded down your frame, padding into the porcelain tub softly. Your mind was just a daze, fogged by befuddlement, after the events that had just occurred with your Supreme. 

Your body ached with an unbearable scorch of pain in every limb. Specifically your lower regions. Even as you swiped it clean of cum with a cotton rag, your knees faltered at the meek brush of fabric. You cleaned yourself to decency, kneading every crevice of your body with soapy palms. 

Now, the hot water was soothing to your sore, fatigued muscles. The soft tunes you hummed to yourself were alleviating, as you swayed with the music you curated. After cleaning every inch of yourself pliantly, you rinsed the suds off of your glistening body. Wobbly hopping out of the bathtub, steadying yourself by bracing the white tiled-wall. 

The bathroom door creaked open and you gulped, clutching your towel tauter to your soaked frame, that gleamed under the artificial lights being produced from the mirror. 

Madison strutted in with a slice of poundcake. "Zoe wanted me to bring you this." She mumbled, slamming the plate down on the basin. Her eyes darted to the dress she was loaning you; bunched up and damp on the floor. She gasped, snatching it off of the mildew-speckled floors, scowling at you. 

"This is real Giorgio Armani, bitch!" She sneered, hugging it to her frame and glaring at you as she wallows in her own preppy self-pity and defeatedly tosses the designer dress into the hamper. 

"... Thanks for the cake." You flashed her an amiable smile as she strolled out of the bathroom, shooting you a scowl from over her pale, dainty shoulder. 

You munched and nibbled on the slice of cake as you raked your comb through your wet locks. Ringlets of water dribbled off of the tips of your hair. Once you devoured the majority of your cake, you stacked the plate on the pile that Madison was collecting in the dormitory. She was a night scavenger, always raiding the cupboards once everyone had fallen asleep.

You towel dried your hair idly, rummaging through your drawers to find a pair of panties. You chose a white lacy pair, slipping them on swiftly, swathing the rest of your damp frame in your silky robe. 

You plopped down on your bed, moaning softly in agony, as the pain ricochets throughout your body. You coiled up into a ball, embracing your knees, shimmying underneath the sheets. You hoped a nap would appease the aches tremoring in your body.

You crashed only a second after your head hit your pillow. The nap only lasted briefly, a little less than an hour, when heavy steps stirred the creaks of the floorboards. 

The mattress dipped, and a large hand cradled your cheek, caressing consolingly. You grumbled nonsense, squirming, subconsciously inching into the comforting touch. Your hand softly glid up to rest on a thick wrist. Holding the hand that was stroking your cheek in place.

"Wake up." A deep voice roused you from your slumber. "It's time to talk." 

Your eyes flittered open. Landing on the Supreme, who is perched at your side, studying you vigilantly. You swallowed, abruptly ascending into a sitting position, eyeing him apprehensively. 

"Tell me what you're planning." He demanded earnestly, tone semi-light. "I can practically taste the cogs spinning in your mind." 

You timidly sat there, pondering. You could explain the entirety of your plan, and ruin the element of surprise. He would never grant you permission to follow through with the liturgy anyways. 

"Come on, Angel." He urged, coaxed, his monotone voice dark with feigned encouragement. "You can talk to me. Despite my rather complex disposition, I'm a keen listener. Especially for anything you would have to say." 

Your cheeks were flushed crimson. You smiled sheepishly, averting your coy gaze. "I just..." You started, your words emitting from your mouth in a meek-like substance, soft and bashful. "I don't know." 

He suppressed a sneer. "You do." 

You blinked at him, your eyelashes sweeping along your undereye, fingers twiddling together. Similar to the way a lamb bleats and squabbles for its mother, lost and dazed, your expression was unnerved. 

"I don't want to upset you." You admitted. 

He sighed mundanely, albeit softly. He tucked a strand of damp, wavy hair behind your ear. "You could never truly upset me, dear. I'm trying to protect you, and I can't do that when you keep secrets from me."

You raked in a sharp breath, nodding, as he molds your trust with his iniquitous hands. "I just... I overheard my sisters talking about Misty earlier. And I thought that maybe if I could bring her back, she could bring Nan back too..." You murmured solemnly.

Eerily, his heart swelled. You truly were an Angel. A gift that only the Gods could fabricate. Just a sweet, innocent little girl, that needed guarded from the obscene immoralities of life. Wholly untouched and pure: or at least you were, before he pried your legs apart with his heinous claws and ravaged your insides.

"I told you how dangerous it would be. You were thinking about trying this alone?" He tilted his head and scrutinized you. 

You nodded sorrowfully, plucking your fingers in your lap. "I just wanted to make you happy."

He flinched at your words, blinking heedfully. He cleared his throat to recollect himself, that hard shell of enigma facading his personnel cracking just a smidge. 

"Well." His hand rests on your thigh, smoothing out the crisp sheet that's loosely cladding it. His stoic but amiable stare bored through yours. "I'm perfectly content with your safety. Don't try anything without me. Your lack of training makes you vulnerable to the darkest depths of your powers. I'm afraid that without my guidance, you'll be taken away from me." 

His words fueled a flame of guilt in your gut. The raw possession in his mollified, oddly calm tone was tangible. You nodded compliantly to broadcast your understanding. 

His other hand pinched your jaw, angling your face to greet his. "Tell me you understand."

"I understand." You breathe without hesitation, eyes locked on his confidently. 

He cracked a poised smirk. "Good." 

The door opened briskly and Madison waltzed through. You winced, expecting the Supreme to remove his hands, only for them to remain steady on your thigh and cheek. 

"Um, what happened to this being a girls space?" She shot maliciously, glaring at the Supreme with an exceeding amount of audacity. She trudged over to her bed, body flopping into the mattress, propping up her elbow and skimming through her magazine from earlier in the evening. 

"What happened to respecting your Supreme?" He twisted his neck to face her nearly tediously, tone lethargic and monotone. There was a hint of playfulness in his tone, but it was so minuscule, it was merely coherent. 

He grunted and arose from your bed, patting your cheek, sighing. His eyes lingered on you as he ordered both of you, "Get to sleep at a decent time. We have an early morning tomorrow, seven sharp." 

That Mephistophelian gaze of his was dark and penetrating yours as he slipped past the threshold without another word, sealing the door shut tightly behind him. 

"Give me a break." Madison hissed, grumbling, flipping through her magazine obnoxiously. "Fuck his meticulous rules, and this Coven. I was supposed to be at the peak of Hollywood by now, you know that?" 

She shot you a look from over her shoulder, and you shrugged. Sinking deeper into your squeaky mattress, scanning the cracks in the ceiling to pacify your spiraling notion. Your chastity had been abolished by a man so warped and notorious with cruelty.

And you loved every second of the torment.


End file.
